


You Knit Me Together

by menaraline



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gore, Hannibal being awful in general actually, Jealous Hannibal, M/M, Manipulation, Manipulative Hannibal, Manipulative Relationship, Mentions of one-sided Willana, Minor Character Death, Mollygram, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Possessive Hannibal, Someone Help Will Graham, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Surgery, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-08-31 22:42:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8596633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/menaraline/pseuds/menaraline
Summary: Will finds it terrifying that his everything has been built and crafted for the sake of someone else. It is with great relief, however, that he finds this person—his soulmate—to be a kind person (a kind person whom he thinks he can, one day, even love). 
Hannibal, on the other hand, takes this as an insult.
In other words: Hannibal and Will are not soulmates. Hannibal finds this intolerable and, to be frank, rude, but he is nothing if not cunning. Consequently, Will faces the repercussions of something that isn’t really his fault (as always).





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags before proceeding—understandably, this fanfic is not for everyone, and I don't want people to feel as though they weren't properly warned. The title is from Psalm 139:13, and this fic takes place sometime during the first season of _Hannibal_ (which is, incidentally, by far my favorite season of the show). It’s been about a year since I watched all three seasons of NBC's _Hannibal_ , so if there are any inaccuracies, I apologize in advance. 
> 
> I have long wanted to write a fanfic for Hannigram, but I was torn between writing something plotty for a change (just to shake things up!) and something incredibly self-indulgent. I think it’s both unsurprising and clear which one I ultimately chose. And to be honest, this fic is _very_ self-indulgent, so don't expect a complicated or riveting plot out of it.
> 
> Just as a small warning: as mentioned in the tags, this fic also contains brief mentions of one-sided Willana and a not-insignificant amount of Mollygram. But, the endgame ship is Hannigram.

The body was discovered in an elementary school at 9:59 in the morning.

Will imagined that there would be a significance to this, some sort of horror in knowing that a corpse—a mangled, bloody corpse displayed like it was a trophy, a _taunt_ —was laid out in an institution meant for young children. Certainly, the poor girl who had found the body understood this, considering how her tiny form shook and her eyes teared as she was questioned gently by experienced officers—but to Will, to _Will_ —  

It all meant nothing to him. He could summon no more outrage or mortification for this crime scene than the last—was this how desensitized he had become? Did submerging himself in the minds of murderers at the beck and call of the FBI and Jack Crawford finally take its toll on him? Will desperately hoped that he was wrong.

But where was the point in hoping? There was undeniably none, because despite how much he insisted and wished that he was fine, Will knew that this job had been ripping him apart from the inside out since long ago—since the moment Will first used his empathy for the sake of justice. Moreover, even if he subconsciously wanted it to be, denial was not an option anymore. After all, the fact that Will saw the murderers he analyzed and practically _became_ those murderers when he least expected it… well, it all made ignorance remarkably difficult for him feign.

Will told nobody other than Hannibal about this… this _flaw_ of his. Hannibal, who watched him now with warm, amber eyes— _eyes of a predator,_ Will thought, but that was ridiculous because somehow, in some way, he knew Hannibal cared about him. He didn’t know if it was his empathy or instinct that told him this, but it didn’t matter either way. Even so, Will imagined that it was most likely the latter, since he didn’t think he could ever get in the mind of a man as brilliant and untouchable as Hannibal.  

Though, that could simply be his horrendously low self-esteem talking. He really didn’t know at this point.

But now as Will stared down at the victim’s broken body, spread out on a cafeteria lunch table like it was something the killer was particularly proud of, he understood that the details of the murder meant hardly anything to him—at least, not _now_. Only afterwards would he hear the murderer whispering in his ear (See? _See?_ ) and feel the killer’s breath on his cheek (and _see_ the malicious smirk of Garret Jacob Hobbs, stretching across his face like a fatal wound—). _Only afterwards_ could he feel his body being torn apart just how this victim’s had been, his organs shredded piece by piece—

But now, none of that mattered. What did, though, was the pendulum that was currently swinging, painting his vision with fleeting flickers of gold.

And, against all that pleaded and begged for him to save himself from a new array of delusions that would rip his soul into mangled bits (how would his soulmate feel, having ownership over something so damaged?), he gave himself to it.

Will closed his eyes, feeling the numbing sensation wash over him. He could only wait for the moment the pendulum wiped away the crime scene piece by piece, returning it to the state it was in before the killer’s design was set into place. He would open his eyes to an image that no longer was, and he would open his eyes not as himself, but as the murderer.

_But he didn’t._

The pendulum stuttered midswing in a way that wasn’t familiar to him—wasn’t _normal_ , but Will didn’t have time to question it before a deep pain pulsed in his mind, breaking him free of the trance he was in. Releasing an agonized yelp, he took a wild step back, possibly knocking into someone as he grasped at his temple with shaking, sweating fingers.

“Easy, Will,” came a smooth, accented voice, and something pleasantly warm— _a hand_ , Will thought distantly—rested on his shoulder. The sensation provided him something to anchor himself to, and Will allowed his weakening tremors to show his appreciation.

“Hannibal, I—” he rasped, voice cracking. Will didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t seem to matter much when he was hushed so soothingly, held so gently.

He was more comforted by Hannibal’s presence than he could ever admit. Though, if Hannibal saw how he leaned into his touch, he did not comment.

When Will opened his eyes, he instinctively knew that _he was still himself_ , not the murderer. He really should not feel such immense relief from his failure, but he couldn’t help it. Perhaps, _perhaps_ he could sleep peacefully tonight—

“What just happened?” came an impatient voice, one that Will immediately recognized as Jack Crawford’s. He did not have to turn his head to know that the man was irritated.

 _As he should be,_ Will thought despairingly, _to discover that I have yet_ another _defect._

Jack then asked, quieter, to Hannibal: “Is he…?”

“I am not,” Will said, less harshly than he would have liked. “I-I couldn’t do it. I don’t know why.”

He then wondered, _if I can’t even be a functioning empath, which is all I’m good for with the FBI, what use am I to Jack?_

“You don’t know why,” Jack repeated dryly.

“I don’t know _everything_ about me,” Will retorted, feeling oddly defensive. “You’re well aware of that, considering how you handed me off to our resident therapist.” He then jabbed a thumb in Hannibal’s direction in emphasis. Frankly, the man didn’t deserve such disrespect when he did nothing wrong, but Will, upset as he was, couldn’t stop himself.

Hannibal frowned. “Will—”

“You understand psychopaths and sociopaths better than anyone, Will,” Jack argued. “You must know _something_ about—”

“Are you saying that I’m a sociopath, Jack?” Will asked, voice hard. Immediately, Jack tensed.

“No,” Jack replied, stubborn. “All I’m _saying_ is that you should know yourself enough by now to figure it out. Or,” Jack said, pausing just so briefly that his eyes could flit tellingly to Hannibal, “You can get a second opinion—”

Will bristled. “I don’t need a _second opinion_.”

“Yes, you do. I need you on this case and we can’t solve it if you’re like this.”

“ _Like this?_ ” Will repeated, hands clenched at his sides. His heart beat wildly in his chest, though he couldn’t understand why. “Feel free to elaborate, Jack.”

“You _know_ what I mean,” Jack growled, impatient now. “Listen, there’s a murderer out there, and—”

“—they could be killing more people. I _know_ , Jack. I want to help, but I can’t.”

“You can and you will,” Jack corrected, straightening his bulky form and making it appear larger than it already was. If it was an attempt to be intimidating, it was working. Will could already feel his eyes darting elsewhere—though, with all things considered, he was never too good with eye contact to begin with. “Just talk to Dr. Lecter, and I’m sure that this will go away.”

 _Go away?_ Will thought, aghast. His issues _never_ simply went away—and he knew this from experience. Even when they weren’t actively tearing his head apart from the inside out, they hung in the air, mere inches from piercing through his skull and shredding him into pieces all over again.

All the times his mental horrors weren’t overcoming him, they were threatening to. Will honestly didn’t know which was better.

“I think I need some time alone,” he finally said, his voice sounding oddly distant to him. “I-I think I need to just... breathe—on my own.”

“Are you sure?” Although there was nothing but polite warmth in Hannibal’s gaze, Will felt something lingering there—something carefully concealed. He couldn’t quite figure it out and any guesses left him doubting himself. “I understand that solitude is desirable, sometimes even necessary, during experiences like this,” Hannibal said. “But having someone simply listening to your concerns is often very therapeutic to one’s psyche.”

“You sound like you have experience,” Will said dryly, but his heart beat quickly against his rib-cage.

“Well, I am your therapist, Will,” Hannibal reminded him kindly. “I always consider what’s best for you.”

Will swallowed. He couldn’t find the words to deny that.

Hannibal had this strange ability to convince—to persuade, and he did so in a way that managed to be at once both slow and certain. It was nearly impossible to fight off his influence and, most of the time, Will wondered why he would ever want to.

But _sometimes_ —sometimes he felt like a cornered animal that wanted to do anything but.

That was, however, _ridiculous_ , and Will knew it. He had to remind himself to be reasonable more often than he would like.

After all, Hannibal was, although not necessarily a friend, someone who—in a way—cared about him. Will knew this, and so he amounted to these brief moments of raw fear to his own irrationality and hysteria.

That was all it was. Unreasonable, illogical, groundless fear.

 _Why does it feel so very_ real _, then?_

Even _if_ Will had an answer, Jack broke into the moment before he could come to it. “Dr. Lecter is right, Will,” the man said, sounding remarkably determined. “You need this. _I_ need my best man back on the field, and you know we can’t do this without you—”

But thankfully his little speech was cut off by a loud proclamation by someone—most likely Beverly, who was a godsend that deserved everything good in life—that expressed that they found carpet fibers near the victim’s torn up liver. In response, Jack perked up in interest. Still, he gave Will a stern look that said _this isn’t over_ before striding off.

This left Will and Hannibal alone. Hannibal was looking at him expectantly. Will nervously looked away.

“We aren’t near your practice,” Will weakly protested. “It won’t work out.”

“We don’t need to be,” Hannibal said kindly. “This isn’t a therapy session.”

“What is it then?” Will snorted, eyeing the bloody corpse that laid only a few scant yards away. “A _date?_ ”

Hannibal’s lips curved upwards, almost imperceptibly. “Just a discussion between two friends,” he said.

Will frowned. With Hannibal, it was never _just_ a discussion—hell, things were never _just_ anything. He didn’t know if they were really friends either, but still…

The offer didn’t exactly sound _awful_.

“I don’t…” Will shifted uneasily.

“You are not obligated to attend, of course,” Hannibal said easily. “But, I must insist that an afternoon away from the crime scene will not do any harm.”

“I’m not exactly _enjoyable company_ ,” Will warned.

“On the contrary, with me, you have been nothing but.”

“Then I will disappoint you.”

Hannibal cocked his head to the side. “That’s quite a conclusion you seem to have brought yourself to,” he remarked.

“I always manage to disappoint those who think that they can fix me,” Will said in response.

“I doubt you could ever disappoint me,” Hannibal commented. He looked genuinely curious when he asked, “And what caused you to believe that I have any desire to fix you?”

“I don’t know,” Will said, fingers fidgeting as he pulled at his coat. “Everyone does.”

“Well, then it is a benefit to the both of us that I’m not everyone.”

“Clearly. Otherwise, you would have cut contact with me weeks ago,” Will said, chuckling dryly. “It’s more common than you’d—scratch that. It’s _really_ not that surprising now that I think about it.”

“Such a person has poor taste,” Hannibal said, his voice almost idle despite the strength of his words. “If they could abandon something like you so easily.”

Will laughed softly at that, though he felt his cheeks heat up from the flattery. “Well, thank God that your palate is better, then.”

“Yes, thank God.” (Had Will been looking, he would have seen Hannibal’s eyes—dangerous, hungry, _dark_ —on him, scanning him with deadly intent from the soles of his cheap shoes to his messy curls. But since Will’s gaze was directed elsewhere as it was wont to do, he didn’t manage to see what was laid out bare before him.

If he did, perhaps he wouldn’t have—)

“You know what? Fine, let’s go on a walk. I needed some fresh air anyway,” Will finally agreed, with a careless shrug. “I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?”

(He should have known better than to say something like that.)

“Yes,” Hannibal said, amicably. “My sentiments exactly.”

* * *

 

Their walk ended up being relatively short. It was quiet but pleasant, with the silence between them being comfortable rather than oppressing—something that Will privately appreciated. The weather, on the other hand, was not nearly as pleasurable with chilled winds biting into his unprotected face and piercing through his thin jacket. Hannibal, ever the gentleman, offered him his scarf—a nice one, expensive and soft to the touch—and no matter how much he refused, Hannibal was mercilessly persuasive.

It was no surprise that he got his way in the end, with his scarf—which probably cost more than Will’s entire wardrobe… and house too, for that matter—wrapped tightly around the lower portion of Will’s face.

But scarf or no scarf, Maryland’s chill was absolutely relentless in the winter and Will wanted none of it.

So with more eagerness on his part than Hannibal’s, they settled in a coffeehouse to stay warm. It was small, yes, but it had a very comfortable atmosphere that Will liked. The staff was personable and friendly; the warm lighting lent the venue a cozy ambiance. Hannibal appeared to be neutral with the place, but Will was certain that under his polite demeanor, the man was barely tolerating it.

Though, the conclusion was not as hard to come to as Hannibal probably would have liked.

“If you wished for coffee,” Hannibal said, eyeing Will’s cup with commendable neutrality, “I assure you that I could have brewed a cup for you in my home.”

“Too far,” Will said, sipping his drink leisurely. The coffee was decent enough, not anything unforgettable, but it got its job done. “I don’t think Jack would appreciate it if we went _too_ far from the crime scene.”

“I believe I could manage to convince him otherwise,” Hannibal said idly, briefly glancing at his scarf that now hung loosely on Will’s neck. “Though,” he commented. “You appear to value his needs over your own.”

“Oh sorry, do you want it back?” Will was already reaching towards the scarf to tug it off. “Because, I could—”

A warm, large hand on Will’s stopped him. He looked up, inadvertently meeting Hannibal’s kind gaze.

“No need, Will,” he said. “It’s my gift to you. I would hate for you to be sick.”

Will swallowed. “I don’t like charity from other people.”

“This is not charity,” Hannibal corrected. “This is a gift from one friend to another.”

“There’s usually an occasion for that,” Will pointed out, weakly.

“Must there be?” Hannibal tilted his head to the side. “I believe there is a certain value in giving a person dear to you presents without there being an occasion for it. Though, if you are uncomfortable with it, we can say it’s for the upcoming holidays.”

“Really?” Will looked down at the coffee in his hands. “I can’t really see you as a festive person.” He then frowned. “And—about Jack, I don’t think I necessarily _value_ his needs over mine. It’s just—he’s a difficult person to say no to.”

“Perhaps not,” Hannibal mused. “But, that does not mean that I do not appreciate the traditions of Christmas and Hanukkah.” A brief pause. “And, I recall that you said no to Jack quite a few times.”

“That was different,” Will protested. “He was being unreasonable. And I can’t really reject him for _long_ if you haven’t noticed.”

“Jack is used to getting his way,” Hannibal said.

“And I’m not,” Will said, flatly. Hannibal’s eyes sharpened.

“You find refusal difficult,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Jack is taking advantage of that.”

“Most people who willingly spend time with me are, so I’m used to it.” Will shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee.

“That’s an interesting thought,” Hannibal said evenly. He then asked, appearing interested, “Is Alana Bloom is taking advantage of you?”

“I don’t know. I don’t _think_ so.” _I dearly, dearly hope not._ “But I tend to be wrong when it matters, so—” He let out a helpless sigh. “—so, I don’t think you should take my word for it. But, I just really can’t see _why_ she would take advantage of me when I have nothing to offer her. Hell, I think she’s one of the few people who actually care about my well-being—if anything, she argues on my defense with Jack.”

“Do you desire her romantically?” Hannibal asked, his accented voice soft and languid. “Sexually?”

“What?” Will flinched, scandalized.

“There is nothing wrong in yearning for someone.”

“I know, I-I just…” He shook his head, still taken aback as he attempted to come up with a coherent answer. “Sexually? I don’t know. I don’t fantasize about her in that way if that’s what you’re asking. Romantically?” _Yes._ “...She wouldn’t want me anyway.”

“And why not?”

“I thought this wasn’t a therapy session,” Will fired back, feeling his face heat up.

“It isn’t,” Hannibal said placatingly. “This is just a discussion between friends, Will.”

“Doesn’t _sound_ like it. I told you what my opinion is on being psychoanalyzed, Dr. Lecter,” Will hissed.

“If I’ve said anything to offend you, I apologize. I will change the subject to something else if the current one makes you feel uncomfortable,” Hannibal said, giving off an air of contrite.

Oddly enough, Will felt uneasy and _guilty_ that he made Hannibal apologize over something as little as this. _Little?_ Something—feelings of inadequacy, embarrassment, inferiority—clenched in Will’s chest.

_Am I overreacting?_

“No, it’s fine.” Will’s shoulders drooped. “I’m just—I’m just really wrung out. You know,” he said, gesturing wildly with his hands. “From the crime scene and all. We can—” He swallowed. “—we can continue.”

“Are you certain? I would not protest if we choose another topic to discuss. Your health and comfort matter to me, Will.”

“I’m certain.” He wasn’t, but he did not like being treated like a porcelain doll that was only moments from shattering. To make his point, Will said, “I _like_ Alana, but I doubt it’s reciprocated. After all, she’s not— _we’re_ not—”

“You do not think she’s yours.” Hannibal appeared neutral and only mildly curious, but, there was an edge to him now. “Why?”

“If she did, I would think that she’d want me back,” Will said, dryly. “And we touched before—not like _that_ , but we touched, and there were no… no _fireworks_.”

 _Fireworks._ Will wanted to scoff—‘ _fireworks’_ was the textbook description of the sensation a person received when they touched their soulmate for the first time, and, unsurprisingly, he never felt it even once.

Sometimes, he doubted he ever would.

“Not everybody feels such an extraordinary sensation from the union,” Hannibal pointed out, mildly.

“I know, but most do.” Will looked away. “Besides, I don’t know if I even _want_ to meet my soulmate—which probably makes no sense since that’s what practically _everyone_ wants.”

“An uncommon opinion, but no less valid,” Hannibal assured him. “Though, I am interested as to why you think such a way.”

“I mean—” Will frowned. “The fact that I’m literally _made_ for someone else—a _stranger_ that I know nothing about—is terrifying. I don’t like it. I feel—”

“Owned,” Hannibal murmured. “You feel as though you do not belong to yourself.”

Will laughed flatly. “How could I, when I wasn’t even made with _me_ in mind?” But then, he paused and looked up to meet Hannibal’s gaze, feeling a sudden and strange curiosity.

“Have you met your soulmate, Hannibal?”

For a moment, a very short moment, Will saw a certain darkness in Hannibal’s eyes—but it was so brief, so swiftly _gone_ , he almost believed he imagined it. And although Hannibal’s gaze never left his, he had no doubt that the man had a shocking awareness of every tell Will was unwillingly displaying—from how his shoulders tensed to how his fingers tightened on the coffee cup, denting its paper material…

Was this how prey felt when under the scrutiny of an approaching predator?

(—But that couldn’t be right! Hannibal was kind and he was concerned about him and he paid for his coffee and he _listened_ to him an-and—)

“Yes,” Hannibal said silkily, softly. "I have."

"How did it feel?" Will asked, the question dribbling out of his mouth before he could even think of it. 

"How did _what_ feel, Will?" Hannibal's gaze was so steady _(i_ _ntense)_  that Will felt that it could break him from pressure alone. He slowly moved in, and Will watched as the man pressed a gentle, strong finger to the underside of his wrist. The unexpected touch seemed to burn into his flesh, and Will had to resist the urge to lean into it. "To touch them for the first time?" 

"I mean," Will said, his voice coming out as a whisper. "It's said that it's a spectacular moment—explosive, almost."

"But of course," Hannibal agreed, his smile curved in a way that sent a shudder ripping down Will's spine. "Entire tragedies, _epics_ have been crafted from the sensation alone." His eyes glinted. "Do you wish to feel it, Will?"

"I—" Will stammered, feeling suddenly quite hot. Did they turn up the heat? "I'm don't—"

Hannibal was so close now that Will could see shadowed flickers in the honeyed pools of his eyes. He could only stare helplessly as Hannibal’s irises were sucked dry by rapidly dilating pupils. It was frightening. _Exhilarating_. And when Hannibal spoke again—his voice making him feel something he didn't, _couldn't_ put a name to—Will could feel his breath against his cheek. “It's natural to be torn, Will." 

He then felt the sensation of hands, slowly, slowly, moving around his wrists  _(like snakes)_  and tightening. Still, as breathless as he was, Will whispered, “Did you feel fireworks?”

He didn’t like those eyes—amber arsenic, liquid gold—that felt as though they were tearing him ( _or someone else_ , something inside him jealously, _madly_ whispered) apart.

Hannibal’s gaze was unreadable, but there was no mistaking the hypnotizing toxicity of it. One of his hands—large but certain and elegant—shifted so that fingers could gently trace the sensitive skin above the pulse point in his wrist. The movement left Will aching and unable to breathe—unable to flee either, and he knew he was absolutely vulnerable.

_Defenseless._

Will didn’t hate the sensation as much as he should have.

“Not even the slightest spark,” Hannibal murmured, and Will was sure that in this moment, in this trance he was in, Hannibal could say anything to him— _do_ anything to him—and Will would be too powerless to save himself.

And there, in those few seconds ( _minutes perhaps, or even hours_ , Will thought, all sense of time lost to him) with Hannibal and Will sitting at a shared coffee table, faces so close that their lips were mere _inches_ from pressing, was when it happened. And, it couldn’t have possibly been more sickeningly cliche.

Will didn’t know how it _exactly_ occurred, but his hands tensed and the coffee cup that was once in his grasp wasn’t there any longer. Somehow, the cheap paper thing was left rolling on the floor and there was dark coffee spilled on the ground—

— _and on a woman’s skirt._

“I’m so sorry!” Will gasped, his stupor effectively broken. He frantically grabbed the napkins that laid on the table between him and Hannibal. “I really didn’t—I didn’t mean to. I—”

“It’s fine,” the woman—young but not too young, with dyed blond hair and a round face, _pretty_ —smiled, and there was something overwhelmingly benign about her. It made Will’s heart quiver. “I was heading home anyway. Besides, this skirt is dark and cheap, so—”

Will was admittedly never good with social interactions, but for some reason, _for some reason_ , this woman—

“What’s your name?” he burst out, quite awkwardly. Will wasn't like this usually, but...

His hand shook as he raised the napkins for the woman to take.

“Molly,” she said with a smile, and when Will looked up, he saw that her eyes were bluer than the sky in the summertime—as blue as a newborn kitten’s and _just as_ _safe_ —and just when she reached out her hand to take the napkins, her hand delicate and fragile…

It was at this moment that Will felt Hannibal’s eyes _burning_. His hand jumped, startled, and it was by complete and undeniable accident _(fate)_ that it brushed against hers.

And Will felt fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this first chapter! 
> 
> I utterly adore Season One’s manipulative!Hannibal/innocent and trusting!Will dynamic, so trust that this fic will have plenty of it.


	2. Chapter 2

Will never really thought about what he should do or say if he met his soulmate since he never thought he’d even _find_ them. This assumption was evidently a mistake because he was now left feeling awkward and tongue-tied as he sat across from this person who he was apparently destined to be with.

Oh, how he wished that he could quickly scrounge the internet for some advice—there _must_ be multitudes of Wik*how and Cosm*politan articles on this, for God’s sake!

Another part of Will wanted to simply grab Hannibal by the sleeve and pull him into some private corner for help, advice, or simply just to _calm down_. After all, Hannibal always knew what was the courteous thing to do in every situation. Not to mention, the man was charming in a way that Will surely wasn’t. But Hannibal—who sat watching the exchange with a distinctly polite expression, one that really didn’t sit well with Will for some strange reason—was silent and contemplative, not giving him even a single bit of encouragement.

Oddly enough, this made Will feel a twinge of disappointment... which was absolutely ridiculous because, really, what did he expect—Hannibal cheerleading him on from the sidelines? Hannibal talking to this woman _for_ him? Hannibal whispering assurances in his ear, with his voice so certain and confident—

Will shook his head, dismayed. He was sitting right across from his soulmate, and all he  could think about was his _therapist_ —

And, his soulmate just so happened to be sporting a huge dark coffee stain on her black pencil skirt. This fact alone caused an immense surge of guilt and unhappiness to rise from his stomach and linger at the back of his throat like a particularly bad aftertaste.

Will began, upset, “I really am sorry, if I didn’t—”

“This is the fourth time you have told me how sorry you are, and this will be my fourth time saying that _it’s fine_ , Will.” Molly was looking at him patiently, which, for some reason, made Will feel even worse about himself. Just earlier, she had stolen (or, in her own words: “borrowed”) a chair from another table to join him and Hannibal. This meant that the proximity between her and Will was quite close, which was somewhat disorienting to him.

After all, he still could feel the _‘fireworks’_. The sensation hadn’t completely gone away yet. Even minutes after it happened, he remained light-headed and energized all at once (though considerably less than before). Evidently, he was still recovering from the overwhelming experience.

“It’s a cheap skirt anyway—I have much better things down south,” Molly added, breaking Will from his thoughts.

 _South?_ Will perked up. “Down south?” he repeated.

“I own a dress shop,” Molly said, and there was no mistaking the pride in her voice. “It’s a nice place if I say so myself; you should come visit sometime.”

Will really didn’t know what to say to that, so he only replied, a tad awkwardly, “Sounds like a good idea.”

“You haven’t introduced me to your friend.” Molly looked at Hannibal, her gaze friendly and curious. “I’m Molly. Nice to meet you…?”

Hannibal said politely, “Doctor Hannibal Lecter. A pleasure.” He raised his hand— _large, powerful, commanding,_ Will traitorously thought—to shake hers.

Molly accepted the handshake. “The pleasure is all mine, Hannibal.”

“I have no doubt.” Hannibal smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Will shivered.

“I’m sorry if this is too forward of me,” Molly said, appearing a little nervous. “But would either of you mind if I talked to Will briefly… alone? I mean, we’re—oh God, I’m still not used to saying this, haha— _soulmates_ , and I think that we should discuss this a bit privately. Of course, we can schedule some other time if—”

 _Don’t leave me here_ , Will immediately thought, giving Hannibal a helpless, pleading glance. It took mere seconds, however, for the needy statement to bring an ashamed flush to his face, and he looked away, embarrassed.

He kept quiet, but for a reason that he couldn’t bring himself to come to, secretly, _weakly_ , he wished that Hannibal would refuse.

Of course, he wouldn’t. Will knew this, but _still_ he…  

“I would not dare intrude.” Hannibal’s voice was kind, but there was something _off_ about it— “May I give you both my congratulations.”

Will glanced upwards, whispering, “Hannibal…” But his words caught in his throat, effectively preventing him from speaking further.

After all, Hannibal’s facial expression was undeniably _twisted_. Will had only seen such terrible (raw, primal, _exposed_ ) emotions from Hannibal in fleeting moments, but _this_ … this was something new. His gaze shadowed with something... _something_ like abhorrence, distaste, disgust—all as though he was looking at a particularly revolting animal ( _a pig_ , Will thought, and the word made his innards _wrench_ )—and, not for the first time, Will felt fear.

But the expression was gone as quickly as it came— _perhaps it didn’t even exist at all; it wouldn’t be the first time I saw things that weren’t there,_ Will reasoned, but the words were flimsy even to him—and Hannibal gave the both of them a gracious smile.

“Please, don’t hold back on my account,” he said. Molly visibly brightened at this (and she clearly hadn’t seen Hannibal’s previous expression, if there had been one at all).

“Thank you,” Molly said genuinely. She then turned to Will, asking, “Will, if it’s okay with you…?”

Will felt Hannibal’s gaze—calm but intense, impossible to ignore even if he wanted to—on him. Uneasiness churned at the bottom of his stomach.

“Ah—yeah,” Will said weakly, upon realizing Molly’s expectant eyes were still on him. “It’s fine with me.”

“Fantastic,” Molly said, smiling, and, despite everything, her smile was so beautiful and _sincere_ that Will felt his chest warm at the honesty of it all. Still, watching Hannibal—someone who was an _anchor_ for him in this lonely, terrifying sea of sudden and great change—leave him alone with this stranger (because, soulmate or not, he knew _nothing_ about Molly) made him feel considerably vulnerable.

And consequently, he was also left vulnerable to anxious thoughts that have long been frothing beneath the surface of his skin—unspoken but still there.

‘ _How will she react when she learns how_ broken _I am?’_ was among the first of them. The worrying question planted itself firmly in his mind, and a new terror—ice cold and insecure—tore through his chest like chilled knives. After all, there had been a person that Molly was, technically, waiting her whole life for, and for _him_ to be that person—

Well, she wouldn’t be the first to be disappointed with her soulmate. The thought was hardly a comfort.

 _Oh God_ , Will thought, his hands shaking underneath the table. _How long will it take before she realizes that I sometimes wake up thinking that I’m a_ murderer?

She would fear for her life; she would think that he would simply _crack_ at any moment and become one of the criminals that he imagined he was.

She would run, and he couldn’t blame her when, _not if_ , she did.

“Will? Will! Are you okay? _Will!”_

He broke out of his distressing thoughts with a gasp, his hands trembling as they grasped at the edge of the table. Molly’s hand was skirting right near his—not quite touching, but close enough that he could latch onto her if he needed to. There was genuine concern in Molly’s eyes, and it reminded him distinctly of Alana—too distinctly, especially considering how certain he was that Alana would never even consider a broken man like him as anything but a friend— _which is good_ , he knew, _it’s good to be friends with Alana_ , but this person was his _soulmate_ , and to have her look at him in the same way Alana (who would never love him _that_ way) did—

Will sincerely feared that Molly would pity him next. That, he wouldn’t be able to handle.

“Will.” Molly’s eyes were practically filled to the brim with worry. “Will, talk to me, please.”

“I’m fine,” Will said hoarsely.

“No, you’re _not_. Will, if you’d prefer to talk another time, I completely understand—”

 _Ah._ He knew it. Molly finally realized what a cesspool of problems Will was, and she was kindly offering him a way of ending this… whatever this was. A date? Hardly.

He predicted this, yet it didn’t hurt any less.

“I’m sorry,” Will said, looking away. His heart pounded loudly in his chest; there was a roar in his ears. “This must be a complete disappointment to you—”

“A what?” Molly drew back, horrified. “Oh _God_ no, what gave you the impression that I was—?”

“I get it,” Will said, still unable to meet her eyes. “I never liked thinking about even the _concept_ of a soulmate, because I knew that whoever was unfortunate enough to be mine would be upset with what they received.” He shakingly reached for his bags, knowing that he was rambling at this point but _God_ , he couldn’t stop himself. “Anyone would be disappointed. But frankly, I think that even if you aren’t soulmates with someone—” And briefly, so very briefly, he thought of Alana with her dark hair and her kind eyes (light blue like ice), and how, soulmate or not, perfect or not, he’d _love_ her—“—that doesn’t make your feelings any less real. So, don’t let me stop you from…” He swallowed, his throat feeling like something was stuck in it. “From finding someone else, someone better—”

“Will, _no_.” Molly looked absolutely dismayed. “This is—no. No.” She shook her head, her voice trembling as she said, “Listen—meeting your soulmate for the first time is overwhelming, and that’s why I suggested that we can talk later. I didn’t mean to drive you away, and I certainly didn’t mean to just… just say something like that and never call.” She carefully, so very carefully, reached out to touch Will’s wrist—Will didn’t necessarily like being touched but he let her, and her hand was soft, warm, and distinctly feminine against his.

(She smelled like flowers.)

 _It isn’t… unpleasant,_ he admitted to himself, feeling the smoothness of her skin against his. Not quite ‘fireworks’ anymore, but he found her gentle comfort so much more pleasant.

“I _want_ to make this work,” Molly told him, and the genuinity of her voice alone made the back of his eyes burn. “I never had delusions about my soulmate—I don’t like elevating people to a position that _no_ human being could live up to. After all, we’re all imperfect. _I’m_ imperfect, which I’m sure you’ll learn.” She gave him a weak smile. “You’re flawed, yes, and I know that because _everyone_ is. But I’m okay with that, and I hope you’ll be fine with my own imperfections.”

“My flaws are less subtle than most people’s,” Will warned, but his voice trembled.

“And that’s okay,” Molly said, her eyes warm and gentle. “ _You’re_ okay. We’ll make it through together if you’d like. I know I would.” She smiled. “Let’s talk, and we’ll start slow. Tell me about anything— _everything_ you want. We’ll go from there.”

And Will, for the first time in a long time, felt the beginnings of something dangerous and devastating—

 _Hope_.

He would regret it later, and of that, he was certain. But for now, _for now_ , he would allow himself this brief reprieve and relax into it.

And so, Will began talking.

* * *

 

The hotel room was large and expensive with high ceilings and dark, smooth floors. The sofa, which Will sat on, was comfortable and plush, and the red rug was soft beneath his bare feet. Fidgeting uneasily, he didn’t know what to do with himself until a wine glass was held in front of him politely by a large, powerful hand.

“Pinot grigio,” Hannibal provided as Will accepted the glass from him. The man, dressed in a fine gray suit even in his own hotel room, sat on a divan perpendicular to his. The couches they rested on were so close that the furnitures’ arms were nearly touching “It’s usually best in warm weather, but with the limited resources I have here, I had to make do.”

Will was honestly taken aback. Hannibal never _made do_. “You settled? That’s new.”

Hannibal gave him a tight smile. “It’s often unavoidable. This room, for example. I never would have chosen it had I had better options.”

The room in question, which was relatively attractive and had decent room service considering that it belonged to the only hotel in its city that was rated more than three stars, was seen as _second-rate_ in Hannibal’s eyes. Will couldn’t even find it in himself to be surprised.

“Better than my choice of stay,” Will commented dryly. “Which is, if you’re curious, a hotel that can be described as a _thrift-store variant of Hol*day Inn_. And that’s putting it kindly.”

Hannibal didn’t miss a beat. “You can stay here with me then,” he said. “There are two beds, and I would not mind letting you use one.”

Will didn’t know whether he should be shocked or not. “You got a room that you intended to stay in alone with _two beds_.” It was not a question.

“This is, if the owner was telling me the truth, the best room in the hotel—which I cannot help but be concerned about,” Hannibal said, appearing faintly scornful. “The hotel owner was also quite stubborn. He refused to have the additional bed moved, since, to him it was _unnecessary_ as I would be only staying here a handful of days at most.”

“How rude,” Will said distractedly, entranced by the way his wine moved as he twirled the glass between his fingers. “Someone should do something about him.”

Hannibal appeared to seriously consider this. “Perhaps,” he said, sounding genuinely thoughtful. “Perhaps someone should.” He then, after a brief pause, gestured to the white wine that Will was holding. “How is it?”

Will, who hadn’t even begun to drink it, _how impolite of me_ , sheepishly took his first sip of the drink. “It tastes like—” _wine_ , he privately thought, because really, they all tasted similar to him (not _everybody_ has senses as good as Hannibal’s) “—grapes,” he finished, quite lamely, and he felt his ears burn in embarrassment. “I mean, fermented and _good_ grapes, and—”

Hannibal laughed—actually _laughed_ , which Will had seen before but _still_ , it wasn’t exactly common—and said, “Will, one does not need to be a sommelier to enjoy wine. I am simply glad that you enjoy it. After all, it is a congratulations to you.”

Will paused. “Congratulations?” he asked, though he knew exactly what Hannibal was referring to.

“To the union between you and Molly. It is no small occasion, and it does not deserve to be treated as such. When this case is over, I hope to invite the two of you to my home and have a proper meal, but until then—” He raised his own glass of wine. “—this will suffice.”

“There’s really no need,” Will protested. “We just met, really, and… it’s really no big deal.”

“Then think of it kindness from one friend to another,” Hannibal responded. He then mused, “Though, it’s uncommon for someone to address their first meeting with their soulmate as something insignificant. What leads you to think that way?”

“I didn’t say it was _insignificant_ ,” Will objected. “It’s just… I was comfortable—before _this_ , I mean.” He gestured wildly, and Hannibal gave him a nod of understanding. This spurred Will into continuing, “My life isn’t _great_ —hell, the only place I can call home is _the middle of nowhere_ , Virginia.” Will paused, gathering his thoughts before saying, “I live alone with my dogs, yeah, but sometimes Alana visits if she’s feeling worried or charitable or—” _She’s not yours, Will_ , he harshly reminded himself. _She’s your friend. She’s not obligated to be with you; get over it._ Even with this attempt at reasoning, it still hurt. “Just... I’m alone, but I can tolerate that. I’m _okay_ with my own personal status quo—I’m not happy about it, yeah, but I’m not sad either. I’m just… just _okay_ , but it _really_ could have been worse.”

“Usually when I go to other cities for the sake of helping Jack and the rest of the FBI, I just want to go home,” Will explained, running his fingers through his dark curls as he placed his wine glass on a nearby table. “But now… Ever since I met Molly, everything in me—both spiritual and physical—is begging me to _stay_ here for the sake of a woman I just met… for the sake of a soulmate that is probably only a couple of streets and avenues away.” His other hand tightened on the arm of the sofa. “I don’t know if I like this sensation. It’s convenient now, yeah, but I utterly _despise_ the feeling of being dependent on someone.” He laughed dryly. “And that’s what I am now, isn’t it? Dependent on someone who I met only _hours_ ago for the rest of my life. I don’t know…” He felt choked. “I don’t know if I can _handle_ it, I—”

— _the walls, the wa—no,_ something… _something_ is closing in—

Will didn’t even know he was trembling until Hannibal placed a steady hand—enormous compared to his, but gentle and powerful all at once—on his shaking upper arm. “You fear change, and meeting your soulmate will undeniably alter your lifestyle. It’s understandable that you’re terrified,” he assured him, his voice smooth, slow, and nearly hypnotic. A part of Will wanted simply to drown in it and _stop thinking_.

“Terrified,” Will repeated. He then laughed, hysterically, so hard that his shoulders started to quiver. “Oh God, I’m _terrified_. I told her—I told Molly so much about me… practically everything, in fact. I didn’t want to—I _don’t_ want to, but at the time, with her so close, with—it’s just… the way she _smiled_ , she....”

“She gave you hope,” Hannibal finished. “Her close proximity to you allowed you to let your guard down and reveal yourself to her. It’s not your fault, Will. The need to surrender to the will of our soulmates is in all of us.”

“I _don’t want it_ ,” Will hissed. “I like my privacy. Molly is nice, yes, but to give everything that I am up for someone who I just met…” He shuddered. “It doesn’t sit right with me.”

“And if you could change who you were destined to be with, would you?” The question was hypothetical and innocuous enough, but when Will looked up to meet Hannibal’s eyes, he saw that they were practically smoldering in their intensity.

 _Jesus Christ_ , he thought, his beating heart traitorously speeding up.

“I didn’t really think about it, but—” _Liar_ , he taunted, _you_ dreamt _of Alana being with you, pathetic—_ “—But I don’t know. Molly is nice and…” He looked downwards at the gleaming floorboards. “I could have had a soulmate who was a _lot_ worse. And, for a long time, I honestly thought that's what I would have ended up with.”

“You are settling for mediocrity because you imagined that you were meant for someone terrible,” Hannibal said, and though his voice was thoughtful, there was something oddly… frosty to it.

Immediately, Will’s hackles rose. “I’m not _settling_ , and Molly isn’t _mediocrity_. Don’t twist my words, Hannibal.”

Hannibal backed down, voice appeasing. “I apologize—I was not suggesting something so presumptuous as that, but I can understand how my words can be perceived that way.” He paused, then spoke delicately, “What I had failed to articulate is that you deserve _everything_ , Will—and I mean that sincerely. It only pains me to see you accepting something that you find less than adequate because you are terrified of the alternative.”

 _“The alternative_ ,” Will echoed. He felt his heart pound, because _what could that mean?_ “Please, enlighten me on what that is.”

Hannibal was close enough—when did he... _how_ did he get so close?—that he could see the heated, darkened amber of his eyes. Will was nearly swept under by the raw power in them. “That there could be someone better for you,” Hannibal murmured, voice managing to be both tantalizing and poisonous at once. “That you deserve more than what God has given you.”

“Are you telling me to go against God?” Will’s voice was embarrassingly breathy, but he couldn’t find it in himself in the moment to care. “Some would call that blasphemy.”

“God, I find,” Hannibal said, and Will felt as though his gaze was pulling him apart. “Enjoys watching the acts of deviant men. He finds too much complacency boring—why else would the most heinous of mankind get away with the crimes they commit? God must be amused by the futile acts of mortal men that are nothing in comparison to His power.”

“E-even so,” Will said, finding it oddly difficult to concentrate. “I can’t simply—” He struggled to speak, and he privately thought that his brain—which sat quite uselessly in his skull currently—was not quite functioning as it should. “—can’t simply _give up_ on Molly before I’ve given her a chance.” Yes, that sounded right. Moving away from Hannibal and his heady influence, finding more breathing space and allowing his head to clear, Will asserted, “We are, as cliche as it sounds, made for each other, and she’s a good person.”

“That is true,” Hannibal said, but his features were strangely tense. “But remember that you had just met Molly. As your friend, Will, I worry for you—are you truly okay with entrusting so much to a woman, as _good_ as she seems to be, with everything that you are?”

“I don’t know,” Will truthfully said, after a moment of hesitation. “But I’ll never know if I don’t try.”

Which, admittedly, had never worked well for him before. _But this could be different_ , that treacherous part of him—the part of him that was overcome the newfound presence of his soulmate in his life—whispered.

Hannibal smiled. It did not reach his eyes.

“Then I wish you the best, as you deserve,” he said pleasantly. “And I’m _certain_ —” His eyes were lit with something carnivorous. It sent a chill running down Will’s spine. “—that this will end accordingly.”

Will, oddly enough, couldn’t manage to feel flattered. Instead, something foreboding tightened its grasp on his chest, a sensation that made his throat clench up.

And if—if he looked closely enough, _for a short moment_ , he could see that the reflection on his wine glass was the stern, _hungry_ visage of the ravenstag instead of his own fearful one. Raw, primal terror pulsed through his very being, and he had to wonder, just briefly—

 _Why does it feel as though something dangerous_ ( _a trap! A trap!_ His reasonable mind had then screeched, but he, and what a fool he was, refused to listen) _is closing in on me?_

Expectedly, there was no reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who celebrate it: I hope you had a great Thanksgiving!
> 
> Thank you all for your support. It's your kudos and (especially) your comments that give me the drive to keep writing this fanfic. I'm also pleased that you appear to enjoy my characterizations, and I'm glad that you seem to enjoy this fic so far. I'm so incredibly grateful, and I hope that you like this chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

The restaurant near Will’s hotel was a lovely place—Italian, specifically—with pale orange walls and dark-wood tables and chairs. Stunning images—ranging from watercolors to oil pastels, from modern photographs to Daguerreotypes—hung on the walls, proudly displaying the Grand Canal in Venice and the Archbasilica of St. John Lateran in Rome. Large windows lined the entire venue, revealing to patron and personnel alike a slowly darkening sky and a busy, fast-moving highway.

In all honesty, Will hadn’t wanted to do this—he’d much rather have stayed in his hotel room for the rest of his afternoon than go to a restaurant. Molly, however, had asked him earlier to meet with her here to discuss things further, and he found that he couldn’t find it in himself to refuse.

Will was beginning to think that a soulmate had much more sway over one’s psyche than he’d previously imagined, and he really didn’t know how to feel about that. After all, the soul bond between him and Molly hadn’t even really _begun_ , and yet she already had a profound effect on him. Despite this, Will was very much aware that this was only the beginning—a first stage that set an environment in place that would encourage the soul bond to grow. In other words: what he was feeling was only fostering the _start_ of a soul bond, not actually the bond itself.

But then, how much power would Molly and he have over each other when the already strong connection between them finally took hold?

Will swallowed. He knew well that it would be powerful. After all, many crimes have been inspired by soul bonds—it was not so uncommon for there to be one between a criminal and accomplice, or—

Or between a killer and victim.

Will felt a strange sort of dread in his throat. Uneasy now, he fidgeted at the table.

Molly, on the other hand, appeared to be entirely at ease. Her hair, blond and smooth, flowed down one shoulder like soft, pale silk. Her black dress—classy, but carefully seductive—strategically left her other shoulder bare, revealing light skin. Her collarbones were accentuated by the deep golden lighting of the restaurant, and a tasteful amount of her cleavage was emphasized by the low-but-not-too-low-to-be-considered-raunchy neckline of the dress she wore.

On the other hand, Will—in his too-big flannel shirt and loose jacket—felt somewhat out of place. He had considered dressing up a bit more, but he felt that either way—dressed or not—he would have been in some sort of distress. In the end, Will decided that it would be better to be upset and in comfortable clothing, rather than be upset and in an outfit that was both too small and too large for him.

If anything, although she did appear to enjoy dressing up, Molly didn’t seem to be the type who went to formal events constantly. That meant that Will wouldn’t have to wear stately clothing too often. Furthermore, Molly didn’t berate him on his casual wear, which he had been preparing himself for, so perhaps this dinner out could be more bearable than he had expected it to be.

It was odd though, being in the eyes of someone who did not quickly or openly pass judgment on him. There were a few other people like this, of course—Alana, namely, being one of them, and there was Beverly too, naturally—but he quickly discovered that they were far and in between. But, as sad as this may have sounded to another’s ears, Will had grown accustomed to it.

He definitely struggled with this loneliness in his adolescence, which led to him being neck-deep in the churning, oily waters of depression during much of his youth (as such was expected of an insecure child with neither family nor peers who understood him, really). But, with adulthood came not elatedness, but rather _acceptance_ of his situation: a forced tolerance, perhaps. It was not terrible though—he enjoyed Alana’s gentle assurances and kind words; he appreciated and admired Beverly’s confident humor.

Moreover, _moreover_ , there was Hannibal as well—Hannibal, who listened to him with the attention a faithful congregation had for the sermon, the attention a priest gave to the guilty man in the confessional. He listened to Will speak about the dullness of his day (though Hannibal never accepted such shallow retellings at face-value; the man found every hole and weak spot in his story, and he pulled them apart), he listened to him describe his fears and express his anger, he listened to him tell stories in meaningless and meaningful metaphors, and offered some of his own (a teacup and a mongoose—who could have thought?).

Hannibal was his therapist, but he was also so much more than that—after all, Will’s parents had sent him to therapists before but none of them had managed to enter him, break him, _consume him_ in a way that Hannibal had effortlessly managed to. More than Beverly, even more than Alana—Will knew no person who knew him, _understood_ him, more than Hannibal did. Hannibal heard him not with a judgmental ear, but a thoughtful one. The relationship between him and Hannibal was strange to Will— _unprecedented._

Still, Will couldn’t help but think that—somehow, in some way, Hannibal had an intent to make him something else (to _fix_ him—whatever that could mean). It was ridiculous, of course, even though Hannibal was too kind to say as much when Will had brought it up earlier. After all, he saw no conscious effort on Hannibal’s part to change him. Rather, he was caring, thoughtful, and intelligent to him—he listened deeply and spoke kindly. Talking to Hannibal made Will feel as though there was nothing else in this world, in this universe, than him, Hannibal, and the room they stood in.

Sometimes, not even that.

At the same time, however, Will was aware that he had changed. He didn’t know exactly _when_ the turning point occurred, or how, but what he was certain of was that there was a distinct difference between the him now and the him prior to meeting Hannibal. Will wasn’t even sure what this change _was_ , and yet, he was still convinced that it happened. This bothered him. Furthermore, the illogical part of his mind found it strange that there was once a time when Hannibal was not part of his life. This too bothered him. Will didn’t like the idea that it took only one person to modify him in a grand way—a grand way that he didn’t even know about. Despite this, it often felt as though his life was split into two—a dichotomy of sorts, a neatly cut binary system divided between Before-Hannibal and After-.

Will knew better though, than to think that things could ever be so clean.  
But, if there existed a moment so distinctive to him, so _significant_ , that it managed to serve as a partition of his life, shouldn’t it be the time when he and his soulmate first met? Ah, but here he was, yet again, thinking of Hannibal when he was with someone else. Someone else, in fact, who should be—based off of all the textbooks and academic papers Will had read—much more important to him than a person who wasn’t his soulmate. It was strange—it was _wrong_. Will knew it was—because although something as transcendental as a soul bond could not be quantified by any sort of physical science, he knew, from both personal accounts and research journals, that this connection was meant to be overwhelming. And in a way, it was for him—he desired to see her, he desired to be with her (in ways that were not always pleasant), and even when he wasn’t around Molly, he felt her very presence edging its way into his being. Yet, in many ways—

(In _all_ ways—)

—Hannibal’s hold over him was so much stronger than that. And this knowledge brought Will a profound shame that felt like heavy stones at the bottom of his stomach. It did not help that Molly—ignorant and sweet Molly—began to to speak to him over the restaurant table. A small white candle flickered helplessly between them. Molly’s eyes were glued to her menu as she said, casually, “You know, although this may be an authentic, expensive Italian restaurant—” (Hannibal would scoff at these words) “—I think I’m still just going to order my usual fettuccine alfredo. It’s my comfort food—” There was a drop of humor in her smile (and Will wondered if her pink lips were as soft as they appeared to be; he had a sudden desire to touch them) when she looked up, her expression changed into one of concern. Will was quite sure that his emotions were not so apparent upon his face, which meant that Molly must have sensed his discomfort through the connection they had.

With some difficulty, he managed to twist his lips (dry, chapped—they cracked and he tasted blood) into a forced, shaky smile. Molly appeared to be quite unconvinced by it.

“Are you alright, Will?” she asked, her eyebrows furrowed.

 _No, I’m not,_ Will thought. _I’m placing my therapist on a higher pedestal than my soulmate, and that’s not normal._

Molly continued, “I know that this is difficult for you—”

“I’m fine,” he said, raising his own menu up with trembling hands. He pretended to read it. All this did, however, was make Molly’s frown deepen.

“Will—”

And then, a blaring, mechanical melody rang out into the restaurant, so sudden that it made Will drop the menu he was holding. Molly wasn’t nearly as startled, but her eyes narrowed further as her gaze drifted to his jacket pockets, where the sound was coming from.

She asked, “Is that your phone?”

“Sorry.” Will said, dipping his (still shaking) hand into his pocket to take out the noisy device. He fumbled with it. “I should pick this up.”

Molly still seemed worried, but she gave him a small nod. And when Will left to go outside, he could feel her inquisitive eyes on him the entire way out. It was honestly disconcerting.

Upon stepping out of the stuffiness of the restaurant into the cold, dry air of the city, for a moment—a brief moment—all Will could do was take in a deep breath and release it, watching his white breath billow at his face (he remembered, once, being a child and pretending it was smoke from a cigarette—his mother, a recovering smoker, had nearly slapped him for it). It was dark now, but the Christmas lights, street lamps, and fast-moving cars rushing across the highway lit up the street.

He took out his phone, feeling frosty air bite at his unprotected hands (he had forgotten his gloves in Hannibal’s hotel room), and he could practically feel his stomach physically sink when he read the name, in capitalized letters, “JACK”.

_Well, shit._

For a second, all Will could remember was the look Jack gave to him, the look that told him that the matter from earlier would not be forgotten. He didn’t expect it to be, of course, but he had hoped that there would be more time—

No point in delaying the inevitable any longer, however. With a bitter smile (it tore at his lips, a flavor of liquid iron in his mouth), Will raised the phone to his ear.

“Jack,” he said. His voice was dry, but his heart thumped loudly against his ribcage. “You must know that this can’t easily be solved by a lunch date with a therapist—”

“It’s been _hours_ , Will,” Jack said, his voice harsh. “I need your help.”

“The body can’t be still there if it’s been so long—”

“It’s still here, actually. The crime scene is more complicated than we first thought—we want to remove the body as soon as possible, but we have to finish documentation first. We’re almost done, thankfully, and it’s going to be moved soon—within thirty minutes, give or take—once the photographs, measurements, and sketches are completed. That means, Will, that I need you there ASAP.”

“Jack, nothing has changed between then and now. I can try, but don’t raise your expectations—”

“I beg to differ. I’ve been told by a trusted source that you’ve, ah, met _someone_ who can help.”

Will drew back, startled. He felt a short pang of betrayal, then anger.

“Leave her out of this,” he snapped. “We only just met—Hannibal must have told you that much.”

“ _If_ she’s your soulmate, she’s invaluable to this case,” Jack argued. “You two have a profound connection—it’s insanity to ignore it.”

“‘ _If’?_ You seem pretty uncertain there—want to elaborate on that?” Will said, coldly.

Here, Jack’s voice sounded odd— _pained_ , almost. “You never know if a person is your soulmate until the bond forms—you know the sensation of ‘fireworks’? It’s rare, but sometimes, people experience false ones—nobody knows why, but… it happens. Before Bella, there was this woman who I thought—” His voice broke off there. A moment of quietness on the other side, then Jack spoke again, brusquely, “But enough of that. As I said, if there is a person who can help you, we aren’t going to pass up on the opportunity.

“I can’t just throw her into this, Jack. Haven’t you always discouraged mixing work and personal life? Well, I’m doing it now. _No.”_

“This is different, and you _know_ it is.”

“I can’t. She—you _know_ I can’t.”

“You can. And you _will_ do it,” Jack growled. “Will, there are _lives_ at stake. You know this. We need your help with this case, and if you can’t do it for whatever reason… well, you can’t deny that a key to solving that issue has dropped right into our palms here.”

“My _soulmate_ is not merely an object that’s been created to solve all my issues, and don’t you dare act like she is,” Will hissed, furious now. “She is so much more than _a key_ , Jack, and—”

“Call her what you will—a key, a fucking lamppost _, anything,”_ Jack snarled, his voice practically vibrating in anger. “But if she can stop people from dying, then I frankly don’t care what metaphor I should use for her. Frankly, the fact that you care more about words than lives is making me _seethe_ , and I can’t believe that we’re having this conversation right now. In fact, I’m ending it right here. I expect to see you and this woman in an hour tops, and if I don’t find you here in that time, consider yourself _indefinitely suspended_.”

Then, silence on the other line.

For a certain amount of time, Will simply stood there outside the restaurant, absolutely still, with one hand holding his phone to his ear. Cars sped past him, splattering dark streets with bright lights.

Eventually, Will was able to come to himself. But slowly, in increments.

Ah, he had managed to trigger the worst flames of Jack’s temper—

Shakingly, Will slid his phone back into his jacket pocket. His hands stung from the cold, and his lips tasted like blood.

—it felt as though they had burnt him alive.

* * *

 

By the time Will rejoined Molly at the table, she had already ordered appetizers.

“I hope you don’t mind bruschetta pizzaiola,” she said, her eyes diverted elsewhere. There was a casualness to her voice that Will somehow knew was forced. “If you aren’t a fan, that’s fine. I like it enough to eat the entire thing.”

“Ah, yeah,” Will said, awkwardly. “That should be fine.” There was a tension hanging in the air, and the fact that it wasn’t being addressed made him feel as though he was walking on unsteady ground.

“So,” Molly said, still not looking at him. “How was your phone call?”

Will didn’t like the tone of her voice. It was too calm, too careful—

She knew something. Will felt a cold spike of fear in his chest. She knew something—but _what?_

“Just work,” Will said. Well, he wasn’t lying, technically—though some might argue that by omission he was. “My boss called me.” A brief moment of hesitation before he quickly added, “It really wasn’t anything big.”

“Your boss,” Molly repeated. Her shoulders tensed, and her hands tightened on the edge of the table. She then closed her eyes—ah, there was a soft shimmer to them, spread across the lids. Make-up?—and took in a deep breath, clearly preparing herself for something.

“Molly…”

She opened her eyes, both determination and reluctance in her gaze. Whatever she was going to say next, she was ready for it.

“You aren’t telling me everything, are you?” Molly finally asked. Her tone wasn’t accusatory, but her words were. Will flinched, stung.

 _Why would she think that?_ He thought, fidgeting underneath the table. Still, Will reassured her, “He—my boss just asked me to come in for the case, and I probably will after dinner.”

There was something sorrowful now in Molly’s expression. Will felt something distressing building in his chest, and his mind was alight with worrying thoughts—

_Why is she acting like this? Where is she going with this? Has she realized what a mess I am and is finally—?_

“Don’t worry about me,” Will said, when he realized that Molly wasn’t going to say anything more. “It’s just… there’s a lot is on my mind, and my boss is pressuring me a bit. It’s only work.”

“Will, I’m not an expert at this—far from it, actually—but we’re soulmates,” Molly finally said. “We don’t have a soul bond yet, but I think that I can, to an extent, gauge how you’re feeling right now, and—” She swallowed. “It’s making me concerned.” Molly then looked at him, imploringly. “Please talk to me. I know that we just met and I shouldn’t be prying this much in a new relationship—and I wouldn’t, usually—but most men I’ve had relationships with before weren’t connected to me spiritually. It’s not good to keep things bottled in, and—” Another deep breath. She paused here, clearly deciding that she had to tread carefully now. “Will... what happened during the phone call you just had with Jack Crawford?”

Will stilled, his hand freezing from where it was tugging at the tablecloth senselessly.

How did she…?

_How—?_

It made no sense. Will could sense her emotions through the connection, and he could feel her concern and her curiosity, but how could she have known that his phone call was with…?

Was it the connection between them that made her figure it out? Was it the growing bond that gave him away?

What else could Molly see? What other things—things that Will had not intended for her to be aware of—did she know? How much of him could she traverse through like a path through unknown woods?

The possibilities were absolutely frightening to him. Will’s mouth went dry, and his heart began to beat fast—too fast. He could feel sweat on his palms, and his throat closed up.

Molly must have sensed his growing horror, because she then said, “I felt your fear through our connection.”

“But how did you know that my boss was Jack Crawford?” Will asked, _hoping_ that she had Go*gled it or seen it in some article or—

 _No, not that._ Sudden terror blazed through his body. _If she read the things Freddie Lounds wrote—_

“Well...” Molly averted her eyes. “He… Agent Crawford had called me himself, while you were still outside.”

And Will felt his blood run cold.

“Wh-what?” His voice trembled. “How—?”

 _How did he—how could he have known it was her, how did he know her_ phone number—?!

Will’s hands trembled violently. He hid them beneath the table, on his lap, simply so that Molly wouldn’t notice.

 _There’s no possible way that he could have known it, I_ know _there isn’t, but if so, then how—?_

Then, he realized. And Will felt the aching, terrible sensation of betrayal.

_Hannibal._

Because, how else—?

 _Who_ else—?

 _God._ Will wanted to laugh hysterically. _Of all people, of_ everyone _I know, of course it would be Hannibal who would ruin me like this. Because that’s what this is—ruination._

Because now Jack knew. And Will had no uncertainty that he would use this knowledge for the FBI’s benefit. He already started to, evidently.

Of course, Will wouldn’t have been able to keep Molly a secret for long anyway, but he’d been hoping that he could at reveal the news in his own time, when he was ready.

But now…

And Molly—how much did Jack tell her? _What did he say?_ Will could feel the sweat building on the back of his neck.

 _This is awful—_ everything _is ruined. The lines I wanted to be drawn between all these people—Jack and Hannibal and Molly—are all coming apart, thread by fucking thread._

“Will…”

_Everyone’s using each other against me—I hate it. I hate that Jack believes he has power over me now that he knows about Molly. I hate that Hannibal has told Jack about her in the first place._

_I_ hate _it._

“Will, please…”

 _I hate this; I want to leave this restaurant. If I get suspended, fine. If I never meet Molly again, fine. I don’t_ need _any of this—_

“Will!” Molly’s voice was sharp now, effectively breaking into his thoughts. Will wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ look her in the eyes, but he could practically taste the worry emanating from her. Then, all he could smell was flowers, and he knew that she was right there—

“Will, please, _please_ look at me,” she begged. He didn’t. “I know how you’re feeling. I’m sensing it through our connection—” _Is that supposed to be a comfort?_ Will thought, feeling despairing laughter bubble at the bottom of his throat. “—And I want you to know that it’s okay. Let’s talk about this—please don’t close me out.”

“It’s okay if you want to leave,” Will rasped, feeling himself shake. “I get it. I’m sorry that Jack threw so much at you, you don’t deserve that—you deserve better. I—”

“We went over this. _I’m not leaving you.”_ Molly sounded shockingly certain of herself, but Will could only think, _that’s what you say_ now— “But please—talk to me. I know that you’re feeling awful right now, but I don’t know why. Is it Agent Crawford? Did he—oh, Will, please look at me.”

Her voice was so sad, so pleading, that Will acquiesced. And Molly’s face was, indeed, sad and pleading. Beautiful too. She had left her original seat to be by him, and her hands were close to him, so close that he could nearly feel her gentle fingertips upon his skin, but she was careful not to touch. It was tantalizing, therapeutic. Will credited this to their shared spiritual connection—because it was difficult, very difficult, for him to be calmed so easily in _anyone’s_ presence, let alone the presence of a person whom he just met.

“What did he say?” Will asked hoarsely, once he gathered himself. And when he finally looked up, Molly was there, right beside him, and there was a steadfast determination in all of her features.

“That I need to help you solve the case,” Molly said. “That there’s a murderer out there that I can help stop.”

“Molly, no,” Will said, helplessly.

There was something starkly resolute in her gaze now. “Will, if I can help save your job—if I can help _save a life_ , then I’ll do what it takes.”

“That’s because you haven’t been to a crime scene before,” Will hissed. “This isn’t a television show—there is a real dead body of a real human waiting in that cafeteria, and you will be expected to be _there_ with me, in the vicinity of the mutilated corpse. You will witness some of the worst depravities done to a human by another.” He ran his fingers shakily through his messy dark hair. “God, Molly, the organs were torn out while the victim was _still alive_. It’s an awful image, one that will burn deep into your fucking brain, and you will wish that you could forget it. And believe me, _I know._ I experienced it.”

“If it’s what I have to do to save people, then I’ll do it.” Molly’s gaze was lit with a naive courage.

“You say that because you haven’t seen it,” Will snapped.

“See _what,_ Will? You aren’t giving me straight answers here—”

 _See me_ , Will thought, feeling his head spin. _See me become the very murderer you wish to save people from._ A cold kind of terror dripped down his spine. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t quite say anything, because how could he possibly tell her—?

“Please,” Molly begged, her eyes large and endearing. This pitiful display struck chords within Will that he didn’t even think he had, chords that nearly made him sink to his knees in capitulation. He then remembered the old textbooks that he read as a schoolboy, and he knew, somehow, that this was only the beginning.

(Those books had said, with a certain decisiveness, that when a soul bond was forming—and when it was _complete_ —the individuals that it belonged to could feel it almost as though it was a tangible thing.

How had Will been the only one in the class who was horrified by this?)

The connection between him and Molly—which wasn’t, even by the most liberal of criterion argued among scholars, a soul bond yet—was already influencing him. Will knew this, knew this from the way he yearned for her touch, yearned for her entire being, and even yearned to stay in an unwelcoming city for the sake of being closer to her. He couldn’t think sensibly around her, and although he somehow knew that he and Molly were compatible, that they had potential for something more...

Will didn’t want it to be like _this!_ To be in a relationship that twisted his mind and caused him to second guess himself and made him _surrender_ to his someone else’s wishes and—

This _is what people dream of?_ Will thought, both disgusted and awed. _Being controlled? Not having autonomy or sovereignty of your own body or your own thoughts or your own_ mind—?

But, God, the way Molly looked at him, all warmth and beauty and innocence—it sent a flutter of something gentle, something _comforting_ to his very soul, and for once, for once in his shitty life, he felt—

He felt as though everything was _right_.

It was a sensation that Will wasn’t used to, one that he couldn’t even fully grasp—just as he couldn’t grasp his still-nonexistent soul bond. And he knew, too, that this could have been so much worse. Molly was a sincerely good person. She couldn’t be blamed for this connection between them, and as far as soulmates go—

Well, Will knew his situation wasn’t the worst, despite it all—despite the heady, confusing mixture of emotions that he was overcome with now. Was it ideal? Perhaps not, but he didn’t have a choice either way, did he?

“If I go,” Will said, his voice trembling. “ _If I go,_ I’ll be different when I get back.”

And Molly gave him nothing but a genuine smile that set his heart and something deeper, something more transcendental, alight.

“I won’t,” she said, with absolute certainty. Will closed his eyes, releasing a shaky breath.

And he made his decision.

* * *

 

Will very quickly learned that Molly could be incredibly, _relentlessly_ stubborn when she felt that she needed to be. It was but a frustrating and admirable trait, and he couldn’t help but worry that her endless determination would, one day, hurt her. In the field he was in, he had seen it happen all too often.

“You really don’t have to,” Will said, weakly, in the car they sat in together. “I don’t—”

Molly was, however, set on her own decision.

“I can help you,” she insisted. “I won’t let you do this alone. I can help— _we_ can help, together.”

“Molly…”

“Please just trust me on this, Will,” she said, looking at him with round, imploring eyes. “I care about you, and if me being there will save lives, I won’t hesitate to step in.”

And that was that.

Only a few minutes ago, they had left the Italian restaurant after eating only an appetizer that Will was not hungry for (it had tasted like cardboard in his mouth). Now, they were on their way to the crime scene. It was a thirty minute drive, give or take, and if traffic wasn’t too bad, it was possible that they could make it to the location on time.

Will could already imagine the look in Jack’s eyes, and he felt something burn in his stomach.

He really didn’t want to do this.

Molly knew this somehow, because with one hand on the steering wheel, she placed her other on top of his. Will looked at her in surprise, and she gave him a comforting smile.

“We can get through this,” she assured him. “I know we can.”

Will, for a brief moment, had an urge to pull away. But her hand was warm and soft and comforting, small against his own, and the innocent physical contact between them felt somehow perfect to him.

 _This_ felt perfect.

It was a good feeling. But, Will couldn’t help but find it painfully artificial—this odd happiness he received simply by touching her. After all, he knew that it was caused by the spiritual connection between them, the mere embryo of the soul bond that wasn’t yet borne. Will was aware that this link was natural, yet the feelings it gave him felt so inauthentic to him. In fact, the very concept of such a bond—one he didn’t even have a choice in having—growing within his soul, imprisoning him to another individual, made him feel torn between astonishment and repugnance.

_But, at least it’s with someone as good and kind and decent as Molly. There are terrible people on this planet, yet they have soulmates too, don’t they?_

_Why am I complaining, when others have it so much worse than me?_

Uncomfortable now, Will left the question unanswered. He instead looked out the window to his right, peering at the blur of buildings and city lights. And as the world seemed to speed by him from the fast-moving car, Will reminded himself that his situation wasn’t perfect, but it was good. It would not do him well to take that fact for granted.

“It’s okay,” Molly murmured, almost to herself. Her sweet flower scent hung in the car.

To her credit, Will could almost believe her.

They arrived at the elementary school—a red-bricked structure, only two stories tall but the building stretched wide across the flat, grassy terrain to make up for its pitiful height—only three minutes late. The school wasn’t too far away from the restaurant in the first place, but they did make it in an exceptionally short amount of time. Will honestly doubted that he would be suspended.

He hoped not, at least—

A blast of cold air. Molly had opened the car door, and gestured towards him.

“Let’s do this,” she said, and her voice was full of bright determination. Will didn’t understand it— _couldn’t_ understand it. How was she so positive?

He stepped out of the vehicle after her, and shivered as a gust of cold wind hit his face. Already missing the warmth of the car, Will stuffed his bare hands into his pockets and tightened Hannibal’s scarf around his face. He felt remarkably unprepared for what was going to happen when he reached the crime scene, and he doubted he ever would be.

Will then heard a soft giggle next to him. He glanced at Molly, confused.

“It’s just that,” she said, laughing, her cheeks and nose reddened from the chilly air. “You wear your scarf in a really cute way—all around the bottom half of your face. I like it.” Molly, who was wearing a jacket—a simple dark plaid thing with a lining of white fleece—and a thick black scarf around her neck, seemed much more attuned to fashion than him in the winter-time.

“I wear my scarf normally, most of the time. And I also own coats nicer than the one I have on now. But I’m just really too fucking cold to care, honestly.” Will’s voice was muffled by the fabric of his scarf.

Molly only laughed in response.

Not long after they entered the school together, Will found himself alone (Molly had to use the bathroom). And, shortly following Molly's brief departure, the first person Will saw was, of course, Hannibal. The man stood tall and lean in a dark wool coat that emphasized the broadness of his shoulders and the neat lines of his body. His skin was light—though not as pale as Will’s—and his honey-colored hair was neatly combed back, revealing much of the distinct, handsome features of his face.

Hannibal’s eyes gleamed when he spotted him. At the intense stare, Will felt as though something was stuck in his throat, and he swallowed nervously. With the room suddenly quite hot, he removed the scarf from his face.

Hannibal began to stride towards him with slow and steady steps, and Will’s fingers twitched anxiously.

“You told,” he said, accusatorily, the moment Hannibal was close.

“I couldn't lie about a soul bond, even one not yet formed.” Hannibal’s eyes were sympathetic, but there was a hardness to them too. “I had no choice.”

“Doctor-patient confidentiality dictates—” Will hissed.

“There are blurry lines between doctor-patient confidentiality and the law,” Hannibal said, almost matter-of-factly. Will found that he despised the tone. “Unfortunately, the matter of soulmates and soul bonds is quite unquestionably placed on the side of the latter.”

“You still could have—!”

“I did not wish to do so,” Hannibal said, smoothly, but the stony tone of his voice allowed no dispute. “But you must understand that if such deceit is caught—and it’s very much possible considering that all the evidence needed is on camera in a nearby coffeeshop—there would be consequences for the both of us.”

Will found himself both outraged and frustrated. He was angry at Hannibal and blamed him for much of what happened, yes, but he really couldn’t come up with any argument that didn’t sound absolutely shitty or selfish. To say that his secret was worth more than Hannibal’s job was simply inconsiderate and self-centered.

“Well—” he stammered, not quite knowing how to reply  
Thankfully, Will didn’t have to respond to Hannibal’s statement because, from the corner of his eye, he could see Molly walking towards the pair with a guileless smile. She was now very much in earshot, approaching the two of them with a distinctly friendly disposition.

“Wi—Oh, hello again, Hannibal,” she said, surprised. “I didn’t think that you would be here.”

“We all do our best to solve the case,” Hannibal said, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. “And we each have our specialties in doing so.” Eyes glimmering, he left the unspoken question hanging in the air:

_What are yours?_

Molly, remarkably aware, answered, “I’m here to help Will.”

Hannibal’s expression did not change. “So Jack said,” he said, neutrally. Hannibal’s eyes then, darted past Will’s shoulder, and Will heard loud, heavy footsteps against the tiled floor.

_Speaking of the devil._

He turned around to see the man himself—large, robust, and dark-skinned, having a firm presence that was impossible to ignore and a scowl on his face—walking towards him with fast-paced but certain strides. Will grit his teeth when Jack only gave him a gesture—a gesture that a dog owner would give to their canine as they said, encouragingly, “Come here, boy!”—but he knew that it would not do him well to lose his temper so quickly.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said tersely to Hannibal and Molly, before separating from the two of them to move to the other end of the hall where Jack was waiting.

“Glad to see you’ve come around,” Jack said, once Will was near enough. He felt his hands clench at the satisfaction in his voice.

 _Don’t let anger get the best of you,_ Will reminded himself.

“Did the investigators finish?” he asked, gesturing to the professionals filing away photographs and other notes they’ve taken regarding the crime scene.

“Not yet.” Jack’s scowl deepened, and there was something distinctly unfriendly in his dark eyes. “And don’t change the subject, Will. We have a lot to talk about concerning your recent behavior.”

Will was trying very hard to calm his rising irritation.

“I think my ‘recent behavior’ has been perfectly reasonable,” he quipped. “What matters more is the case—”

“‘Reasonable’?” Jack scoffed. “You were acting like a child on the phone earlier—”

“Don’t _patronize_ me,” Will hissed quietly. “I don’t appreciate you using Molly against me.”

“ _Against_ you?” Jack’s lips curled into a snarl. “I called her here to _help_ you. But of course, you can’t see that!” His voice took on an accusatory edge. “You _know_ that having your soulmate here for just an hour may possibly stop a murderer, yet you can only think of yourself. That’s _selfish.”_

“You think me not wanting to drag an innocent woman into a crime scene is selfish?” Will whispered, outraged.

“I think that you should prioritize your job a bit more and think about the bigger picture for once,” Jack growled. “I can’t believe that I’m putting more effort in this than you are, because from what it looks like to me—”

Then, Will felt someone press against his side. Blond hair tickle his neck and soft curves grazed the side of his torso, and he nearly collapsed from the sensation alone. _Molly._

“Agent Crawford,” she said. Her voice was polite, but there was something steely in her tone. “Am I interrupting something?”

“No.” Jack’s eyes were hard. “No, you aren’t. And thank you for coming; I appreciate it. It’s good to know that _someone_ wants to bring justice around these parts.”

Molly’s mouth tensed. “I think you underestimate Will,” she said.

Jack’s lips tightened, but he didn’t argue. “I hope so,” was all he replied. Molly couldn’t respond, however, because an investigator—Jimmy Price, this time—called Jack over.

“Excuse me,” he said, somewhat curtly, before stalking off. Will had the feeling that Jack didn’t want to speak to him while Molly was there, and he decided that this couldn’t be a good thing.

“Don’t listen to him,” Molly said, outraged. “It’s not selfish to think of your own mental health first. He’s being ridiculous, and, frankly, selfish. I didn’t think it was this bad here—” She frowned, clearly upset now. “Will, if you want to leave, we can go. I’m sorry for prying and pushing you into this—I really didn’t think that people here treated you this way. And if you decide to go, I assure you, neither you nor your choice are _selfish.”_

She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. Will’s heart stuttered.

“Do _you_ want me to go?” Will asked softly.

“It’s up to you,” she said, gently. “No matter what you choose, I’d have the satisfaction that you did the right thing.”

Will looked away, his hands trembling _._

It would be easy to say no. Molly was giving him a way out—it was pretty clear to him that she wanted him to stay, but she understood it was _his_ choice to make, not hers. She respected him, let him make his own decisions—and in all honesty, that was far more than most people were willing to do for him. Hannibal suggested that Will was settling for mediocrity when he decided to pursue a relationship with Molly, but was he really? She was kind and compassionate and understanding to him, and she appeared to have no desire to manipulate him for her own benefit.

Being actively influenced by each other wasn’t a decision either of them made, but it could be a situation that they could make something _good_ out of. Perhaps it did sound as though he was just settling, but really, Will hasn’t met a person who treated him this way since Alana.

And maybe, if Molly was by his side, seeing the design of a killer wouldn’t affect him as much; maybe Jack _was_ right, and she was the key that he needed. Will wasn’t too hopeful about this, however, and he found it more likely that nothing would change when it came to his empathy. But, he knew that he had to at least try. And this wasn’t about Jack, not really—this was much more than that. After all, there were lives at stake, and although Will had failed to save people before— _many_ people, in fact—he liked to think he prevented at least _some_ deaths from happening.

He couldn’t just stop here. The fact that Will wasn’t able to see this killer’s design a few hours ago didn’t mean he never would. And with his soulmate at his side… well, perhaps he was being naive, but wasn’t there even a _chance_ that things could be better?

And so, lacing his fingers through hers—her gloved fingers were slender between his own—he murmured. “Let’s do it.”

Molly’s eyes shined with warmth and approval. The sight of this alone made Will’s face heat up.

He led her through the halls and into the cafeteria. The room was horrendously decorated, with teal-tiled floors and white tables with attached benches. Rancid looking food was splattered on the floor and walls. The cafeteria was quite large, but the only thing Will’s eyes centered on was the body that laid at the center of it. The corpse’s arms were stretched out on the smooth surface of a table, and its legs were leaning against the edge of the seat, feet hovering inches above the floor. Will felt a sharp intake of breath from Molly beside him, and he whispered to her, “You don’t have to do this. I understand if you don’t want to. You can still help from outside of the room—”

“It’s fine,” she said, but her voice trembled.

“Are you sure?” he murmured. “This won’t be pleasant.”

“I’m okay,” she insisted. Will glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and he noticed that she was more pale than before. “It’s just…” She swallowed. “I have never seen a corpse in real life. It’s really not like the crime documentaries on TV, you know?” She let out a weak laughter.

“It’s alright if you go back.” Will gently touched her shoulder. “We’re soulmates; it won’t matter if you’re in here or out in the hall. You’ll be able to help me as long as you’re relatively nearby.”

 _Probably,_ he privately added.

“I’m staying with you,” Molly said, stubbornly.

“Alright, fine. If you change your mind, let me know, okay?”

“Okay.”

“We’re going closer to the body,” Will said, his voice soft. “Are you ready?”

“I’m ready,” she said, but she sounded uncertain.

“Molly—”

“Listen, Will, I said that I was going to be with you, and I’m not going to change my mind. I’m a bit scared, fine. But it’s not going to stop me, and neither are you. Let’s go.”

And so, they walked forwards. Will felt Molly’s body grow more tense as they approached the table where the body was lying upon. Although they weren’t too close to it—there was a distance of two yards or so between them—he could see how the victim’s corpse was torn open from chest to stomach. It was a gruesome sight, especially for someone who had never seen something so vile before. There was a sour scent in the air, and he could see that Molly was beginning to look ill. She stood rigidly beside him, and her cold, shaking hand grasped his tightly. Her eyes were widened in horror

It was sometimes difficult for Will to remember that not all people were accustomed to seeing brutal crime scenes or dead bodies, but this was a much-needed reminder.

Will separated from her, carefully, and stepped away. “I need my space,” he told her, slowly. “But hopefully, being in proximity with each other can make this work.”

There was an unspoken question in her eyes: ‘ _this’?_ Molly, however, didn’t voice it. “Alright,” she said instead, but her eyes haven’t left the body. Even though it was clear she was both disgusted and terrified, Will could see courage practically emanating from her. He wished he could offer her more assurances, but any kind words died on his tongue. Will’d never been good at comfort, anyway. Privately though, he didn’t think she even needed any sort of consoling. She was frightened, but fascinated too—brave.

Probably more brave than him, Will dryly realized.

“Try not to freak out, okay?” he told her. “This… may look a bit surreal. And odd—definitely odd.”

“Freak out…?” Molly echoed, looking concerned and confused. “Will…”

“I don’t have time to explain,” Will said. “Just… Just trust me. I’ll explain it to you later, I promise.”

“O...okay.”

Releasing a deep breath, Will closed his eyes and listened as the world slowly muted around him. The fast-paced steps of the investigators dulled to a soft hum, and the soft muttering between colleagues hushed. It felt as though he had plunged into deep water with thick liquid filling his ears, encompassing any noise within in his vicinity, and leaving nothing left for him to hear but soft, vague, indistinguishable sounds. Will opened his eyes, but his vision momentarily blackened. There was then the white-gold swing of the pendulum, leaving behind a soft yellow glow as it moved smoothly across his eyesight.

Then, it trembled.

And it stopped.

Will nearly cried out in disbelief, because this couldn’t happen, not when Molly was right by his side. What was _wrong_ with him? Why couldn’t he function properly? How—?

Had he lost _this_ too? Was his empathy—which was perhaps the only thing that he thought would always be his—gone now?

 _Why?!_ He thought, feeling deep despair clawing up his throat.

Frustration, deep frustration tore through his chest, and Will nearly cried out from the injustice of it all, but _then_ —

—he heard her.

Molly’s voice, gentle and soft, engulfed him. Will shouldn’t be able to hear what words she was speaking, he _shouldn’t_ —the world was muted around him, yet her words carried through, clear as day. “ _I’m here,”_ her voice sang, and his darkened vision swirled slowly, sweetly around him. “ _I’m here.”_

Then, a bright, powerful sensation overcame him and a bond, young and newly formed, rippled into being. It overwhelmed his senses, and it felt so beautiful, so _perfect_ that the ‘fireworks’ paled in comparison to this. Will had sensed the bond vaguely before, yes, but now it seemed to be so tangible that he could nearly brush his fingers against it. And perhaps it was possible, because when Will grasped at empty air and pulled, he could have sworn he heard a gentle melody ring.

It felt so real.

It _was_ real. The soul bond, weak and only just born but still _there_ , hummed between him and Molly.

God, this was what having a soulmate felt like? It was so potent, so satisfying—and as cliche as it sounded, it felt like a long-needed piece had finally been put into its rightful place in his proverbial jigsaw puzzle.

And to think that the bond had only just materialized...!

The sensation was as quickly gone as it came, but Will still felt the bond _alive_ within him. He nearly sobbed from relief when the pendulum began to swing again. In one moment, the black vanished, and in the next, Will saw the world again—sharp, raw, ugly (ugly even though he had just seen it at its most beautiful). The cafeteria was before his eyes once more, but the carnage was gone. The blood-splattered walls and milk cartons were pristine again, and blood on the floor swallowed up from within itself. He walked backwards, slowly at first, then quickly, out the emergency exit that stood at the north end of the room. He was soon standing outside the building itself, and distantly, he could feel the frosty air stinging at his skin. He heard the muted blaring of police cars, but they too were quickly wiped clean from his vision.

Soon, there was only him and the school left.

The victim—Erika Smith, the principal of the institution—was tall, brown-skinned, and dark-haired; she was South Asian with the last name of her late step-father. She stood in the center of the cafeteria, surveying the room and the messy state it was in. She was stout in shape, unmarried (there was no ring, but who would want someone like her, anyway?), childless (no child deserved her as a mother), and middle-aged (she lived _too fucking long)._

From the window, he watched her, almost as though he was in a trance. This silent moment did not last long, because he then stalked forward with powerful, quick strides. The door, left unlocked by an irresponsible teaching assistant, was easy enough to open. Erika Smith’s head whipped around in response to his audacious entrance, and the inelegant features of her face twisted in outrage. Her lips—painted a dark red—tightened, and she shouted something indistinguishable.

And then, he attacked.

She struggled. Her movements were fierce, and she was strong—she had taken martial arts, once—but he was stronger. “I pin her to the cafeteria table,” he said. “By her neck with remarkable strength, practiced skill, and clear expertise—I have done this before, and I know exactly what I am doing and _whom_ I am killing. I do not allow her to die yet—that would be pointless.” She tried to yell for help, but he pressed down further with unrelenting hands. “She will suffer before her death, as she had deserved years ago.”

He pulled a knife from the pocket of his jacket. “I will tear a gash down her chest, beginning from beneath her neck and ending right below her navel.” She screamed beneath him. “I pull the wound open, and tear each organ from her body. I do so slowly and without any care. I cannot distinguish between the organs, but I know what the heart looks like, and that is enough—I only need to avoid it. There is no thought in this ritual, only anger—and the knowledge that I will receive the justice that I have long deserved. I am aware that she will die soon, as she is losing blood quickly—too quickly. But she will die in agony, and that alone satisfies me.”

“ _This is my design.”_

* * *

 

Blood was splattered against walls, and it pooled at the foot of cafeteria tables and benches. A body, torn up and bloody, laid in the center of the room, and a sickly scent clung to the air. The last few investigators were milling about, and jotting down notes.

Will was relieved by the sight. He knew now that he was _him,_ after all, and that what he was looking at was the present. The muscles in his legs felt weak and a wave of lightheadedness fogged up his brain. Will nearly collapsed there and then. For the most part, this weakness was abnormal. After all, what he had seen, whom he had _become_ —well, to put it simply, the entire experience wasn’t any worse or more gruesome than what he had been through before.

But the new sensation of the soul bond, barely there but _vibrant_ , made him feel as though his knees could buckle any moment.

“Will—” Molly’s voice was hushed, so that nobody else but him could hear. “It—I _feel_ it—” She was shaking too. He felt her hand upon his, and he could feel the tremors running through her body.

Molly felt the bond as strongly as he did, and that alone eased any leftover tension in his body.

“I do too,” Will murmured, softly, and in the face of all of these powerful emotions that he was feeling, he couldn’t help but wrap his arms around her small, shaking body. He remembered Jack’s words that _false_ ‘fireworks’ did happen, but now he knew, with certainty, that this was real. Molly and he were real, the bond between them existed and it would only grow—

“God,” she said, and there was a sob in her voice. “Oh, God.” Will felt wetness against his neck, and he drew back, shocked. He saw Molly, trembling where she stood, with legitimate tears in her eyes. Her smile, however, was filled with sincere joy. The sight, oddly enough, nearly made Will cry, and he felt, for once, overwhelmingly happy.

The moment, unfortunately, did not last.

Will heard someone clear their throat behind him. Surprised, he pulled away from Molly, turning around only to see Jack approaching him. As always, there was a scowl on his face, and each step he took was slow and even.

Will’s hackles raised.

“I heard from the investigators that you managed to do it,” Jack said when he finally reached him.

“It was personal,” Will said, recalling what he had just seen. “The murderer wanted revenge for something that had happened years ago—look into Smith’s history. Oh, and the killer should also be fit—they had no issue in pinning the victim down and choking her. They were, however, not very good with the removal of the organs, but they didn’t try to be. Again: personal.”

“I thought as much,” Jack said, frowning at the corpse. “Turns out the victim had made many enemies over the years.” He sharply turned to the investigators, saying, “Take the body away. I think we’re done here.”

And when Jack left, Molly muttered, “He’s such an asshole.”

Will couldn’t help the loud laughter that bubbled out of him at the statement.

“He is, isn’t he?” He gave her a weak smile. “But he gets the job done, if anything.”

“If he ever calls my cellphone again like he did at the restaurant, I’ll give him a piece of my mind,” Molly promised. She then turned to Will, saying firmly, “If you don’t say ‘no’ to a guy like him, you’ll just encourage him to keep pushing.”

“I’m just not very good at handling him.” Will sighed. “He’s very persistent when it comes to crime. It’s good in a way, I guess, but he doesn’t take refusal well when he’s passionate about a case, which, incidentally, is always.”

“I figured.” Molly gave Jack’s retreating back a spiteful glare. “That’s not an excuse to treat you so poorly, though.”

“Doesn’t stop him from continuing to use it as one.” Will shrugged.

Molly’s eyes narrowed at this. “Jerk,” she muttered, running her fingers through her hair. Wrinkling her nose, she said. “Let’s leave. It smells bad, and I think I’m going to start retching soon.”

Will couldn’t help but agree. He was used to the smell to a degree, but it was still inarguably repulsive.

“Yeah, let’s...” Will began, but then he saw a figure—tall and lean, powerful in an expensive suit, an easy smile upon malicious lips—standing by the exit, waiting for him. He couldn’t help it when his voice trailed off in his shock, replaced by a single name dribbling pitifully out of his lips—

“Hannibal,” Will breathed.

“Hanni—?” Molly repeated, confused. Then, she saw the man himself approaching, and at that, there was clear comprehension in her eyes. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hello,” Hannibal said, giving both Molly and Will a pleasant smile. “I’ve heard of your success, Will. Well done to the both of you.”

“Well, it was mostly Will—” Molly corrected.

“But you helped him, did you not?” Hannibal said, eyes gleaming. “I give credit where it’s due. It’s only polite.”

“Thanks,” Molly said. There was a soft flush along her cheeks when she leaned closer to Hannibal, saying almost conspiratorily, “It wasn’t really me though. It was the bond between us, probably.”

“The bond?” Hannibal did not seem the least bit perturbed by his sudden proximity to Molly. Instead, he appeared momentarily surprised. “It had emerged?”

“Yes, I’m shocked too,” Molly said with a distinct joy and exhaustion in her voice. “I’m not even sure how it happened, but we both felt it—I feel it right now, in fact. It’s weak, yes, but it’s there. It’s very much there.”

Will, who had been politely keeping his eyes on Molly as she spoke, momentarily averted his gaze to see how Hannibal was reacting to the news. After all, he wanted to know what his view on the matter was, and he genuinely hoped that there would be no issue. Will couldn’t help but wonder, briefly, why Hannibal’s opinion mattered to him so much, and why he would think that there would be a problem in the first place. He and Hannibal cared about each other, didn’t they? If so, then why would Hannibal be upset regarding the new development between him and Molly…?

It made no sense, yet—

 _Yet,_ when Will glanced up at Hannibal, his heart nearly froze in his chest, and something icy dripped down his spine.

Hannibal was smiling, but his smile seemed to be empty of any real feeling. There was something dangerous to the features of his face—something twisted, distorted there, something that was struggling to mask his real feelings. There was a false interest in his gaze, and his eyes—

His eyes were dark, _furious._

 _(Danger, danger!_ Will’s warning bells rang loud.)

“Will, Molly,” Hannibal said. The pleasantness of his tone seemed off, somehow. Forced. “I recall that earlier, I had said that I would invite you for dinner at my home, and I will extend that invitation now. I heard from Jack that your restaurant dinner was unfortunately interrupted by this case, which is truly a pity, but one that can be rectified. Allow me.”

“Oh, but we couldn’t! I don’t want to impose—” Molly said, shocked.

“You are not imposing, because I am the one who is insisting that you two come visit,” Hannibal corrected, mildly. “Think of this as my congratulations for both your union and your newfound soul bond. And,” he said, turning to Will. “As an apology, too. Even if the law had pressured me into making the decision, I’m regretful that I told Jack. I understand that you feel betrayed, and I can't blame you. But, I still wish to make up for my errors. Although I doubt that a mere meal will mean forgiveness, I want to at least try.”

“I don’t know…” Will said, cautiously.

“Please,” Hannibal said, pressing a hand against Will's shoulder so that his index finger and thumb brushed against the bare skin near his neck. His touch burned. “Allow me to correct my mistakes. Let us celebrate your union with a feast that you two truly deserve.”

Before Will could say anything, Molly, who was blushing and and smiling, said excitedly, “I would love to.” She then glanced at Will, her eyes practically sparkling. “We definitely should. I don’t think the bruschetta pizzaiola we had filled me up enough, and you barely ate a single bite of it! We might as well, right?”

 _No!_ Will thought sharply, wildly. But there was no logical reason to refuse, not when Molly—who was hungry because his job interrupted their meal back in the restaurant—clearly wanted to go. There was something, however, deeply primal that was practically screaming out  “ _warning, warning—!”_

But again, this strange feeling was clearly groundless. After all, what deadly event could possibly be waiting for him at Hannibal’s house, a place that he had visited many times before? It was unreasonable; _he_ was just being unreasonable.

And so, with a great amount of reluctance, Will said, “Fine.”

(And this, undoubtedly, was one of Will’s biggest mistakes that day.)

“Great!” Molly exclaimed, a bright grin on her round face. She then turned to Hannibal, clearly grateful. “Thank you for allowing us to come over.” Her happiness was beautiful, of course, yet Will couldn’t help the odd feeling of foreboding that swirled in his stomach.

“Excellent,” Hannibal said, but his eyes… his eyes were _deadly_ , predatory in a way that made a shiver run down Will's spine. He had to resist the urge to back away.

_(Danger, danger!)_

“It will be a grand event between the three of us,” he assured them both. “Befitting of the occasion, I promise you.”

And oddly enough, Will had no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry that this update came so late—I had been taking a winter class, and I just started a new semester. If it’s any consolation, this chapter is a longer one. :) And, I’m also sorry for the lack of Hannigram in this update; however, this chapter is very necessary for what’s to come.
> 
> The next chapter should be the last one! It’s also where most of the warnings and tags I listed will come into play, so please be careful and re-read them!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this update! And please don’t hesitate to comment or leave kudos if you did! :) Comments especially keep me going—they’re my metaphorical life-blood when it comes to writing fanfiction.


	4. Chapter 4

Will recognized Hannibal’s home the moment it appeared at the corner of his vision. The grand estate—with its pale walls, large windows, and dark-tiled roof—was unmistakable even in the distance, and he’d noticed it long before the car that he’d been sitting in was even close to the impressive structure. The manor was surrounded by trimmed hedges and tall, slender trees that shook against Baltimore’s harsh winter winds. The sky was pitch-black with neither moon nor stars in the sky to light the twisting pathway that led to the lovely abode.

Will stepped out of Hannibal’s car—a sleek black Bentley Arnage with quilted leather seats and wood inlays—and he immediately felt cold air blast at his face. It pierced through any thinner fabrics he was wearing, and his hands, bare and defenseless against the cruel chill, swiftly fell prey to the frosty temperature.

Will quickly shoved them inside his jacket pockets, which were hardly adequate substitutes for gloves, but they were _something_ at least—

Then, there were gentle fingers on his wrist. Will looked up, shocked, only to find the dark eyes of Hannibal staring back at him. As simple and small as it was, the touch had nearly made him take a surprised step back, and the beat of his heart had quickened erratically.

_Jesus Christ._

“Allow me,” Hannibal murmured, his breath white in the frosty air.

Earnestly confused, Will felt large, gloved hands slip into his pockets, trailing over his own naked palms. He couldn’t quite stop his sharp intake of breath at the sensation of cool leather against his skin. It was strange, the way that Hannibal’s hands were so much greater in size than his (he could feel them now—the power and flexibility and defined talent in each of Hannibal’s fingers), but still managed to maintain a remarkable elegance that Will’s hands—clumsy, shaky—lacked.

 _What else,_ a sly voice in Will’s head whispered, _could he do with those skillful fingertips of his?_

The pounding of his heart was suddenly deafening—surely, Hannibal must have heard the loud, furious beats? Will could physically feel his face redden.

But Hannibal said nothing. Instead, diligently focused in his task, he slowly eased Will’s hands from the coat where he unceremoniously stuffed them in. Will stared, enraptured (even as his fingers trembled in the bitterly cold air), as Hannibal carefully, smoothly, reached into his own pockets to remove some dark sort of fabric. Will couldn’t stop himself from audibly gasping when he realized that this cloth was actually a glove—a _pair_ of gloves—and he only watched, amazed, as Hannibal slid them onto his freezing, bare hands.

“I noticed that you had left your gloves in my hotel room,” Hannibal explained, his voice low. “So I brought you new ones.”

“Y-you didn’t have to—” Will stammered. “You could have just given me my own—”

“I lost them, unfortunately,” Hannibal said, though he did not sound particularly sad (or, to be frank, _honest)_ about the matter. Will couldn’t complain, however, as he stared, stunned, at the soft fabric wrapped perfectly around each curve and bend of his hands. The gloves were undoubtedly expensive, because not only did their material feel luxurious, _Hannibal_ gave them to him. Will knew that the man had only tailor-made or designer clothing, so he doubted that these gloves would be any different from the rest of his exorbitant wardrobe.

“Hannibal, I—” Will began, not quite knowing what to say. “Thank you.”

“No need.” Hannibal’s smile, genuine, crinkled the corners of his eyes. Mesmerized, Will stared. He found that the slight lines on Hannibal’s face gave him an appealing, distinguished look. Indeed, he carried with him the air of a illustrious man with remarkable amounts of intelligence and experience in equal measures.

It was beautiful and intimidating all at once. From the _way_ he spoke (his voice alone—deep and accented and smooth—was able to make Will completely and entirely melt) to the _words_ he spoke (“Remarkable boy”, he once said to Will, a distinct pleasure in his voice that had left Will shivering in its wake), it all gave Will the impression of a man who managed to conquer what was unconquerable and attain what was unattainable. Because surely, the knowledge Hannibal carried (it was evident in the dark intensity of his eyes and in the intellect possessed within each syllable he breathed out) could not possibly be accessible by any single, mere human being.

And the thought of this sent a rush of heat through his veins. For Hannibal, who was staring at him with such heavy covetousness in his gaze, was also looking at Will as though he was the only thing worthy of his attention.

Will’s lungs suddenly didn’t seem to have enough oxygen, but even as his vision seemed to blur, Hannibal stood clear and distinct against the rest of his faltering world. _An anchor,_ Will thought, distantly. He felt something warm against his upper arm, and without thinking, he leaned into the touch and—

Then an arm, slender and cold _(not Hannibal’s)_ , wrapped around his. The trancelike moment shattered, and Will took a wild step backwards, startled. He glanced to his left to see Molly pressed against him, and, vaguely, he remembered that she had been retrieving her handbag from the car.

“It’s so cold outside,” she said, her teeth clattering. “L-let’s go indoors.”

Will glanced at Hannibal, prepared to give him a humorous what-can-you-do smile, but he found himself frozen still by what he saw. Hannibal’s eyes were narrowed in absolute repulsion, and the slight downturn of his mouth expressed his contempt. There was clear loathing and disgust twisting each and every one of Hannibal’s facial features as he stared at Molly, and the sight was absolutely bewildering.

_What…?_

Will, sobered and alarmed, looked at Molly. After all, she _must_ have seen—

But she didn’t. Molly was shifting through her purse in search of something, and therefore, she hadn’t realized the hateful look Hannibal was giving her. When she noticed Will’s blatant staring, she looked up at him, confused. Clearly misinterpreting the gesture, she offered, “Mints?”

Will swallowed. His throat was dry. “No thank you.” He glanced back at Hannibal’s face, expecting to see the same detestation from earlier there, but his expression had changed entirely. Hannibal gave Molly an easy smile. “You’re absolutely right. Come,” he said, gesturing politely towards his magnificent abode. “I’d hate for you to get ill.” His words were friendly, but there was a disingenuousness to his voice. “The meat would not taste nearly as good if you did.”

“Yeah, I’m shivering here,” Molly agreed, her white breath billowing at her pale face. “I already miss the warmth of your car.” She wrapped her arms tightly over her chest. The action nearly made Will, whose arm was still linked with hers, trip. Hannibal’s eyes momentarily darkened at this, but the disdain was gone just as quickly as it came.

Hannibal chuckled. “Yes, let’s fix that. Follow me.”

Will, however, found that he couldn’t move his legs. For, the warning bells, deep within the mechanics of his being, rang loudly, echoing through each and every chamber of his body and mind. He was frozen in place by his own instincts, which screamed at him, ‘ _Don’t go!’_

But then Hannibal turned to him with a smile. It was so kind and gentle (and deceptive) that it made Will’s foolish heart flutter.

“Please, Will,” he said, holding a hand out for him. “This dinner could not possibly possibly go on without you.”

“I—” Will began, the words catching on his tongue.

“It’s so cold outside.” Molly now joined him, her arm tightening around his. “Let’s celebrate in the warmth of your friend’s home.” She pressed her cold face against the heat of his neck, and Hannibal’s eyes _burned._ But when Will glanced at him, alarmed, Hannibal was merely smiling at him, his gaze welcoming.

 _Am I going mad?_ Will thought, hysterically.

“I would not want you to be sick on such a big day,” Hannibal began, his voice a low timbre. “A day of a union,” Hannibal said, slowly. “Of a bond.”

“Of a _forever.”_ The words scorched deep into Will’s bones, his marrow.

Molly was blushing now. “You should have become a poet,” she said, amazed. She then said, playfully, “Whatever person who is lucky enough to have you must _swoon.”_  

“I certainly hope so,” Hannibal said, neutrally. He then looked at his watch, eyes gleaming. “Ah, we should head inside. It’s getting late, and I cannot afford any error on such a significant night.”

“Let’s go,” Molly said, this time nudging Will forward. “Come on, Will, it’s cold.”

And poor, naive Will—ignoring his intuition—followed.

* * *

 

There was something oddly stifling about Hannibal’s home that night. It was a sickly, confining sensation that made Will feel nauseous— _ill_ even, almost as though there was something closing and tightening around him. That wasn’t quite true, however, because there very much existed exits out of the manor and into the streets, a doorway that led into the backyard, large windows that could be opened, and so on and so forth. Will couldn’t discern the reason for his sudden antsyness, but all he knew was that it was an unfounded, baseless feeling that he was most likely overreacting about.

Therefore, he purposefully ignored it.

Will knew what he was feeling was unreasonable, because he had been within the walls of Hannibal’s home many times before. Although there was an intimidating quality to the place that only a manor this imposing could possess, Will hadn’t really realized how _menacing_ it really could be until this day. He felt an odd claustrophobia now, as though the shadows could close in on him at any given moment—and there were plenty of shadows, for the place was so incredibly dark, even with the lamps lit—and he, the coward he was, found himself flinching at even the most insignificant of noises.

It was strange. It was _infuriating_ , especially when he saw Molly, who had entered the manor for the first time, appear entirely at ease as she chatted casually with Hannibal on the other side of the dining room.

She was fine, and there was not even a single sign of stress or tension in any of the curves and lines of her body. Her face was relaxed too—happy even, in the way joy lit up all of her features.

Molly was okay, but if so, why wasn’t he?

Then again, it was foolish for Will to compare himself to her in the first place, when he was so very _broken_ —no matter how much he denied it, he knew that it was true—and she wasn’t.

He hadn’t been able speak to either Molly or Hannibal since he had entered the house, and whenever he attempted, he found his throat closing up. Watching the two of them get along so well without him made him feel like a hindrance rather than a dinner guest—and, strangely enough, it caused an odd sensation to burn inside his chest.

Inadequacy. _Jealousy._

Will found himself overcome by absolute shame due to these these feelings. Why _shouldn’t_ the two of them be allowed to get along? He didn’t own them, and they should be allowed to be friends on their own. They were fine—they were _normal._ Molly and Hannibal could talk about normal things, _do_ normal things, while Will was simply… a nuisance; a man who sleepwalked and dreamt of murderers. Frankly, he knew very well that they could both be closer to each other than they ever could be with him, and—

And God, that fucking terrified him. Will was being selfish, he knew, but he hated seeing the way they talked and how they stood so closely together that their elbows were nearly touching, with Molly grinning and laughing and Hannibal offering her small smiles in turn and—

The dinner hadn’t been made yet, and Will was already feeling like trash (which he should be, for what kind of friend, what kind of _soulmate_ , would hate seeing two people he was supposed to care about get along? _Garbage_ , that’s what—).

Budding friendship _should_ be a relief. After all, Will had been getting the feeling that despite his polite smiles and kind words, Hannibal didn’t _like_ Molly, really. But evidently, there seemed to be no blatant issue between the two of them when they were together, which was entirely a good thing.

Yet, with Will being selfish as he was, he just couldn’t be happy for them. The idea of speaking to Hannibal or Molly now, when they were clearly fine and better off without him, made him want to retch. He didn’t fully understand why, and he didn’t know if he wanted to. All he could do was look down at the gleaming dark-wood panels of the floor and feel miserable for himself. _It’s strange, really,_ he noted bitterly, _that Hannibal seemed to put such a great emphasis on time earlier, yet now he’s using it on useless small talk._

For a moment, for a brief moment, Will felt eyes on him. Alarmed, he looked up and around the room. Hannibal and Molly had eyes only for each other—Will hated it, but he simply gritted his teeth—and as far as he could tell, there was no monster hiding in the shadows.

He decided he was imagining it. Still, Will felt something uneasy crawling down his spine, but all he could hear was the low, muted voices of Molly and Hannibal speaking words that Will couldn’t decipher very well. Despite this, he did pick up some pieces of the conversation, willingly or not.

“—so you were a doctor,” Molly said, sounding sickeningly amazed. “Have you ever—?”

“—not my specialty,” Hannibal replied, warmly. “But, I did participate in such a surgery once, when an emergency—”

“Incredible! You saved—?”

“Indeed, I have. Now I’m—”

Even now when they were conversing in such a friendly manner, Will still couldn’t help but think that there was a strange, heavy tension between Hannibal and Molly. He didn’t like this either—he didn’t like the bitterness at the pit of his stomach, the fear bubbling in his chest, the suffocating atmosphere that left him short of breath, the illness in his throat, the feeling that something was going to _happen—_

“—wouldn’t say ‘merely’—” Molly laughed. “A cook, a doctor, a therapist—you’re fantastic!” She then turned to Will, raising her voice slightly. “Hey, where did you pick up a guy like him?” She jabbed a thumb in Hannibal’s direction for emphasis. “I’d like one, too!”

Hannibal chuckled; however, Will almost missed the way his lips tightened.

“Uh—” Will began, when he realized that she was waiting for a response. “It’s really long and complicated.”

“We all have plenty of time to spare, I believe,” Hannibal said kindly, glancing at his watch in an easy, practiced motion. “I haven’t even started cooking yet.”

“Shouldn’t you be more focused on _that?”_ Will said, somewhat bitterly. “I mean—that’s the reason Molly and I are here, after all.”

“Will!” Molly looked somewhat scandalized.

“No, he’s right,” Hannibal said, smiling. “I’ve been a terrible host so far. I’d better—”

A sudden, piercing melody in the air.

It was some sort of pop song. Will didn’t recognize it—he didn’t really listen to this sort of upbeat music—but he could tell that it was catchy enough to be a hit among youth. It was somewhat obnoxious, and the high, quick notes were not very pleasant to his ears. Will could see the way Hannibal’s eyes narrowed in utter repugnance, but instead of voicing this disgust, he turned to Molly, saying good-naturedly, “Forgive me if I’m mistaken, but I believe that’s yours?”

Molly flushed in embarrassment. She frantically rummaged through her purse, saying quickly, “I’m so sorry, my sister changed my ringtone the last time I went out with her and—” She took out her cellphone, peered at the screen, and laughed. “Well, speak of the devil.”

“Your sister?” Will blinked at her, surprised. He didn’t know Molly had a sister. Again, this was a good reminder that they had literally just met earlier this day and knew next to nothing about each other. _But that’s fine_ , something inside of him reassured, _you two have all the time in the world to learn._

“She’s awful,” Molly said. She rolled her eyes, but she was also smiling. “Well, not really. She can just be really bothersome when she wants to be—”

The ringtone blared again. Hannibal winced.

“You are free to take the call,” he said. “The food’s not ready yet, so it wouldn’t be impolite to answer. Besides, your sister will be worried.”

“Yeah,” Molly said, her eyes sparkling in a way that made Will’s chest feel pleasant. “I think I will. I’ll be back—don’t miss me too much!”

“We’ll try our best,” Will said, forcing a smile. Molly, however, was already halfway out the door and didn’t see his expression. Once the ringtone silenced and the front door slammed—so Molly had chosen to take the call outside then—Will felt his shoulders drop in lost tension.

_Wait, tension? Since when…?_

He then turned to Hannibal, his mind spinning as he tried to come up with something to say to him that would break the silence between them—

“I’d better start preparing the meal,” Hannibal said abruptly. “Feel free to look around,” he invited, gesturing to the fireplace and the painting on the wall and the rows of herbs on the other side of the room. “Perhaps,” he said, his dark eyes glinting. “You’ll find something of interest. Do not hesitate to call me over if you have any questions.”

“Sure,” Will said, uncomfortable. Hannibal was still for a few moments, considering him. His gaze was thoughtful, intense, and Will shifted uneasily, disliking the scrutiny and feeling suddenly self conscious of his oversized flannel shirt and messy hair. Soon enough, however, Hannibal gave him nothing but a single smile that sent something cold running down his spine, and then he was gone. He had walked through an archway, where, assumingly, the kitchen was.

And in that very moment, Will was in the dining room, completely and utterly alone.

At first, he didn’t know what quite to do with himself. He didn’t find anything of particular interest in the room—he possessed no curiosity for the herbs lining one wall or the painting that was hanging on the other. The grand fireplace wasn’t that extraordinary to him either—he had a fireplace at home, after all, albeit a fake one, but still. So really…

What was he supposed to do here? Will felt sincerely lost and uncertain, his mind blank and body motionless. Even in his own home, where he lived with no other person, he had his dogs. But here, he had quite literally nothing to interact with. He couldn't even use his cellphone as entertainment since he didn't have it on him currently; he must have accidentally left it in Hannibal's car.

 _Well, this is shitty,_ Will thought, already feeling the dangerous beginnings of boredom. Restlessness began to spread through his limbs and churn within his brain, spewing discontent and unutilized energy that he soon started abhor. He grew desperate for some kind of stimulation. He at first fidgeted in the same spot Hannibal left him in. Then he started to pace in small circles, and finally, he began to look around—Hannibal _did_ say he could, after all—but again, he found himself losing interest quickly. After all, he had seen this place before on several occasions, and not much had changed, really.

The dining room had walls that were thinly striped with various shades of blue. The chandelier above was metallic and intricate, with each light held by slim, curved stems. Green, leafy herbs were held in rows of dark shelf-like containers. Will imagined that they were for cooking, though he didn’t know for certain. The table and chairs were simple but elegantly crafted—they were made of a brown wood material, and their smooth surfaces glimmered beneath the warm lamplight. Oddly enough the table was bare—possessing no candlesticks or any other decoration as it was usually arranged—but Will didn’t think too much of it. After all, Hannibal was away from home for days—he would not need candles on his dinner table while he was away.

There was a small end cabinet too by the fireplace, with a golden-lit lamp and other objects placed on its dark surface that he couldn’t quite discern. The fireplace was sleek with sharp corners and dark coloring. On its mantel were two, menacingly curved white horn-like pieces, darkened at the ends and ominous with their sharp, pointed tips. Will couldn't help the shudder that ran down his spine just from looking at them—they looked as though they could easily pierce through flesh. Two lights sat on the edges of the mantel, and a painting hung right above the fireplace, almost as though a it was a centerpiece, framed perfectly by horns and lamps alike.

_Leda and the Swan._

Will did not know this religious story well, but he understood enough to have a fairly strong grasp on what the old painting was conveying. Some called the tale gentle seduction, with fiery lust on both ends—the fierce desire between a mortal and a god for each other. Perhaps that was true, perhaps it _was_ romance that caused Leda to conceive the children of the king god, of whom Hesiod crafted entire poems in fervent praise. But Will was not a romantic man—he saw no beauty in this, and he doubted he ever would.

Past the veneer of pretty colors and imagery and worship, he saw something else entirely different. Something like—

Want from a twisted, selfish creature towards someone who was powerless compared to his might—

Deception, as the strong being takes the disguise of a kind, beautiful creature to enter the arms of the weak and defenseless—

Helplessness of a victim in the face of an assault by someone far too powerful to properly fight back—

To Will, it was a bleak story, a horrifying one. It was a tale of a mortal, helpless beneath the strength of a god. For a strange reason that Will was never able to discern, he had always found the story of Leda terrifying. And the fact that Hannibal hung this particular piece of art up near the dinner table—

It was disquieting. Will could already feel unease prick at his skin, and he felt sweat building at the back of his neck.

 _It’s just a painting_ , he reminded himself, tugging at his collar. The heated air of the house was becoming unbearably hot. Uncomfortable, Will walked towards the other end of the room, where a glass door that served as an entrance to the backyard stood. He opened it with surprising ease, intending only to let some fresh, cool air into the room and perhaps make the heat more tolerable. Indeed, the cold breeze was a relief, and the place felt infinitely better.

Until—

Will heard an odd shuffling of papers. He pulled back, surprised.

_Papers?_

He turned around, only to find that there were papers now strewn around the floor. The wind must have blown them onto the ground, and they were all now plainly in sight, and very likely out of order. Will wondered, briefly, where they had come from, until he realized that these papers must have been the objects he couldn’t identify on the cabinet by the fireplace.

He knelt down, intent on picking them up, but to his surprise, he found that there were images—no, _drawings_ —on them. They were beautifully done, clearly done by a practiced hand, and they were art pieces—lovely pencil and charcoal sketches of old architecture, nude women…

Vaguely, Will recalled that he had seen these once before. But where…?

Ah, right. Hannibal’s office, left on his desk. Will didn’t look at them too closely, but he was certain that these were the same drawings that he had seen back then.

 _Did Hannibal draw these?_ He wondered, awed. Will wouldn’t be surprised if he did, because Hannibal had very talented hands—

 _God, what am I thinking?_ Will pressed his hands to the lower half of his face in shock, horrified by the direction his thoughts went and, in the process, clumsily dropped all the papers he was holding. His face was heated in embarrassment, and he was only thankful that he was the only one to hear these words—

Shaking his head, Will bent down to the floor to pick up the papers again, focusing more on what he was doing, and as his eyes trailed over sketches of traditional courthouses and Italian basilicas and old church buildings, of unclothed women with soft curves and silky hair, and of  a man that was nude besides cloth wrapped around his waist with arrows piercing his flesh—

Wait.

_What?_

Will’s hand froze. For a moment, he believed his heart stopped as well.

For, what laid in his palms was a drawing—a _sketch_ of a man with his body torn into and stabbed by knives and arrows and—

 _The Wound Man_ , Will immediately recognized. It was an image that originally dated back to Europe in the Middle Ages, but why would he know so much about this sketch?

And why then, would Hannibal have it now? For his own interest? It wouldn’t be strange, and Will could imagine Hannibal drawing these old medieval medical diagrams in his leisure time for his own pleasure.

Yet, why was there such potent fear in each erratic beat of Will’s heart…?

Why did he feel as though he had seen this image before?

Will quickly ran through past memories of crime scenes that he himself had witnessed, but nothing in particular stood out to him that would reflect this sketch—

And then it hit him. And Will _knew._

He knew that these same wounds were dealt onto a murder victim that he’d seen before. But which victim? And by which killer? The paper folded and dented in Will’s shaking hands as his grip tightened. _Who—?!_

Jeremy Olmstead.

The name came to him suddenly, and Will found himself to be short of breath.

Hannibal’s sketch reminded him distinctly of a man— _Jeremy Olmstead_ —who was found brutally killed in _this exact way_ by—

By—

The _Chesapeake Ripper_.

Why would Hannibal have this chart? Will’s heart was so very loudly now, pounding helplessly against his ribcage, _terrified_. How would he _know?_

_Why…? What—_

At first, Will could only back away, his shaking legs as weak as a newborn foal’s. His grip slackened, and he dropped the paper that he’d been holding. It slid beneath the table in a smooth, swooping movement. Denial swam to his head, and he felt dizzy. The world blurred around him, and his heart was frantic within the confines of his chest.

_No. No way. That’s—_

_Hannibal can’t—_

_He_ can’t—

“Will?”

He turned then, seeing Hannibal, dressed down into a dark button-down shirt and dress pants, standing in the doorway.

_God, no._

Will felt an odd sort of dread pool at the bottom of his stomach. His head—and his _world_ —spun, wildly, out of his control. _Is this what it’s like, standing before death?_ He wondered, giddily. _To feel lost and empty, and knowing that you have_ no choice _in the face of inevitability?_

The worst part, however, was the fact that he had never thought his death would come this soon. Will imagined it happening one day—as all physical life would eventually come to an end on this planet, and he was no exception—but him to be staring at death in its eyes, not knowing whether it was minutes or mere seconds away…?

“I heard a noise,” Hannibal said, glancing at the glass door that was left just slightly ajar. _Don’t see them, don’t see them,_ Will thought desperately, envisioning the papers that were left scattered on the floor. He remembered that the sketch of _The Wound Man_ was still underneath the table. If Hannibal saw it, Will would be done for.

_Cassie Boyle, a victim of the Chesapeake Ripper, had her lungs removed._

_This was because the Chesapeake Ripper had eaten them._

And Will felt a surge of nausea. Would he be eaten too? Merely meat on a plate for an unassuming Jack or, God forbid, Alana, or—

 _Molly._ What if Hannibal fed him to Molly?

The thought left Will’s throat dry, and a cold shudder rushed down his neck. The open glass door allowed frosty air to seep into the room, and he felt as though the icy winds could reach his bones. Will could hardly breathe, and the way Hannibal was looking at him with such an inquisitive gaze—

 _Say something, you idiot! He’s going to_ know—!

Hannibal asked, without any particular interest in his voice, “Did you open the—?”

Then, he paused, considering. Will felt his stomach drop at the sudden thoughtfulness in Hannibal’s eyes, and paralyzing fear ripped through him when he saw the man look around the room and—

“I—” Will began, wildly, spurred into action by the possibility of death, but he was far too late. Hannibal’s gaze had already trailed downwards at the papers lying in disorder across the floor. And then—

 _No, no no no_ **no—**

Then, Hannibal was staring blatantly, without shame or horror or any emotion in his eyes, at his very own sketch of The Wound Man, left underneath the table in practically bare sight.

_I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead I’m dead—_

Hannibal looked up, meeting Will’s eyes with a steady, unflinching stare. His face was neutral, perhaps somewhat interested, but otherwise—

There was something deadly about his eyes, something _dangerous_ that made Will feel as though they were pulling him apart—not unlike how Hannibal’s own victims were peeled away layer by layer to gain access to the organs. It was a terrible sensation that left Will nauseated, and his knees felt weak and without substance.

If all it took was a single stare from Hannibal to make him feel as though he was being ripped apart from the inside out, then how would the real thing be like?

That thought alone sent a rush of ice-cold fear clawing through Will’s entire body.

“Ah,” Hannibal said, remarkably calm. “So you know.”

 _Oh._ Oh.

 _Oh, God, oh_ shit—

Will took a wild step back, and in that moment, that very instant, he wished that he had a gun. He was entirely and utterly defenseless, without even a single weapon in hand that could protect him. That alone was terrifying. Will glanced wildly around him for something, for _anything_ that he could use to fucking _survive._

He grasped at the dining room table, trying to find an object that he could defend himself with. But there were no candles, not anymore, and there were no decorations or plates or—

Desperately, Will took note of his escape options: an archway that lead to the kitchen. A dead end. A glass door that lead to the backyard. A dead end. A door right near him, leading to the hallway—

_There._

“Well,” Hannibal said, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he considered him with eyes that were almost treacherously warm. “It was only a matter of time.”

Then, he moved.

Hannibal’s strides were long and quick, certain. For the first second or so, Will felt himself frozen in place, not unlike a deer in headlights, his body unmoving and mind empty. But awareness hit him quickly enough, and he turned around (he should have known not to turn his back to a predator) and _ran._

He dashed out into the hallway, his heart pumping wildly. Panic had spread and dispersed through each of his senses, and he struggled to think clearly. Where should he go? Where was the exit? The lights had gone out, Hannibal must have pulled the wire or something, and he couldn’t fucking see in the pitch-blackness—

The corridor was so dark that Will could hardly distinguish anything in front of him, and in order to avoid an accident, he had to raise his hands in front of him. He felt as though he was running blindly, because although he had been in this house before, he hadn’t been there nearly enough to be able to navigate the place when he was overcome by panic.

Had Will been in Hannibal’s office, maybe he would have had a chance.

The hallways were narrow and he felt the soft, smooth touch of the wallpaper against his fingertips far too many times. The light that the windows offered was nearly nonexistent due to the moonless night sky, but it was practically the only illumination he had. As Will ran, the only thing that was really visible to him was the occasional end table or cabinet, none of which he had the time to investigate.

He couldn’t hear Hannibal behind him. The only sounds that reached his ears were his own heavy breathing and the clumsy, loud noises of his shoes hitting the floor. It was terrifying to be so utterly unaware of where the predator chasing him was. It made Will feel lost, uncertain, and frightened.

He despised it.

But no more did he abhor the darkness of the house, because in one moment he was running, and in the next, there was something pressing against his ankle. The ground vanished beneath his feet, and then, there were sharp edges digging into his jaws and cheeks and chest and—

_CRACK!_

Will nearly screamed in agony. He muted his voice by stuffing the sleeve of his plaid shirt into his mouth, but tears were building at the corners of his eyes. There was a burning pain in his ankle, and he knew—he fucking _knew_ that he fractured it—

It was only because of his desperate, fervent will to live that he managed to push himself off of the ledges that he had fallen on. He belatedly realized that what he tripped on was a large, slanted wardrobe. Will cursed it in his head, briefly, and his head swam at the intense, unforgiving pain in his right ankle. He was aware, in this very moment, that he could not possibly use any of his weight against it. That fact alone nearly made him sob, because how could he run when he couldn’t use one of his legs—?

“Oh, Will, this is why I didn’t want you to run.”

The low voice was sudden, unwelcome, and close behind him.

_No. No no no no no, oh, God no—_

Will was nearly frozen still by rapidly growing horror. With a terrified wail building in his throat, he turned to see Hannibal standing only a few yards away from him. The faint light from a nearby window cast odd shadows on his elegant features, which were most definitely from the intricate designs on the glass. There was a glint to his eyes, a deadliness to his smile.

It was terrifying.

“You aren’t exactly stopping me,” Will hissed, attempting to ignore the fiery agony in his ankle. It didn’t quite work, evident by the embarrassing whimper he released when he accidentally pressed the heel of his foot to the floor.

He then realized, at the corner of his eye, in the pathetic light of the window, that there was a small teacup sitting on a nearby cabinet. It would not be a good weapon but if it could be used as a distraction… It could possibly work. Possibly.

“I was hoping that I could calm you down,” Hannibal said. His eyes trailed downwards to the leg Will was favoring, and tsked. “Evidently, that was a mistake. But it's fine—I have the skills and medical supplies that would help your fractured ankle.”

Will had no time to think about it, really. He only knew that there were two paths he could take: the direction where Hannibal was, and the other where there was a potential of freedom and survival. And with that in mind, Will grabbed the tiny porcelain teacup by its handle and _flung_ it at Hannibal.

He didn’t stay long enough in the area to know if it hit or not.

Will limped away wildly, clumsily, and he felt so helpless and slow that he was beginning to think that Hannibal was playing with him. After all, surely at the pace he was going, it was easy for any able-bodied man to catch up with him. Will grasped desperately at the walls, trying to find something to hold onto, and pulled himself forward. It took much more effort than Will had imagined, and he knew very well that he was at an even greater disadvantage than before.

Will felt frustrated tears well up in his eyes, but he swore, _I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to—_

The side of his foot knocked against a wall, and he it was so painful that his vision momentarily flashed black. Will thought he would faint there and then. But he had to move quickly, because without a doubt Hannibal was coming. He attempted to drag himself ahead by grasping a protruding wall corner, but he found that his sweaty, shaky fingers couldn’t even get a proper grip on the smooth structure. Will couldn’t really think, not anymore, not with the way his head spun and the way nausea crept up his stomach. His body was practically collapsing from exhaustion and fear, but all that was going through his mind was _, I’m not going to die, I’m not—I_ can’t—

And then, two large hands at his back _pushed_ Will forward. He gasped as he lost his balance, but this gave way to an agonized wail when he landed on his wounded leg. He nearly toppled to the ground, but then he felt a strong, powerful grasp at his sides, _slamming_ him against the wall—he screamed at this; his ankle felt as though it was on _fire_ —and then holding him still.

“Don’t move,” Hannibal growled in his ear, his voice low and threatening. Will trembled in Hannibal’s grip, and he knew, in that moment, without those hands there to keep him steady, he would have fallen to the floor.

It was strange, depending on someone in a situation like this—someone who, in actuality, was a murderer and—

A splash of cold terror. Whimpering, Will attempted to pull away, but in response, he felt something hard, smooth—a leather shoe—slam against his ankle.

And then, all he could feel was agony.

When the roaring in his ear quieted, he could feel warm, soft breath against his cheek and gentle hands at his ankles. He whimpered, attempting to pull his leg away, but the hands didn’t budge.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Hannibal murmured. “But I had no choice, you must understand.”

“B-bullshit,” Will whispered out, voice hoarse and shaky. “You could have let me go.”

And then he felt arms—gentle, strong arms—beneath his knees and back. Will nearly sobbed as a new sensation of pain rippled through his body at the movement, but he heard a soft “ _hush”_ above him. Instinctively, Will looked up.

“You know I couldn’t do that.” Hannibal’s eyes were almost adoring as he looked down at him. “I could never do that.”

And all Will could think was, _I know_ , as he felt a sting in his upper arm and the world mercifully blackened around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… it turns out that this won’t be the last chapter of this fanfic. It was getting far too lengthy, and I was beginning to feel guilty about how long it was taking to post it (I have many midterms and essays that I need to focus on—I apologize). I’m not entirely satisfied by this chapter, but I still hope you enjoy it! So, I split the big chapter and am instead posting the first part of it as Chapter 4. Chapter 5 will hopefully come soon, but I cannot promise when.
> 
> Anyway, yes. The obligatory Wound-Man-Discovery scene. I was horribly uncreative, but *finger guns* I tried. In all honesty, I think that I could have finished this fanfic in one go if I didn’t spend almost half of this chapter describing Hannibal’s hands. I have no excuse for that—I was just being horribly self-indulgent.
> 
> I’m grateful for your infinite patience! As always, thank you for kudos, and a big thank you to the commenters who give me the strength to keep on writing!


	5. Chapter 5

Everything was fuzzy and indistinguishable and bright. Will struggled to open his eyes and, unable to think properly, didn’t know why he’d even want to. Despite this, a strange sense of urgency began to emerge, and he squinted blearily as his vision slowly cleared and his surroundings became distinct. Striped blue walls surrounded him, and a glaring white light blinded him. Will shut his eyes and groaned, the brightness making pain pulse in his head.

His body, too, ached. It felt as though he had ran a marathon of some sort and had not yet recovered. Will’s right leg—his ankle—in particular, felt as though it had shattered and then clumsily put back together. When Will tested the limb with a small, unsubstantial movement, he nearly yelped as a hot wave of pain surged through it, agitated. Wanting to see how his other leg was faring, Will attempted to shift it. He found that he couldn’t, however, because something hard and unwavering was enclosed around his left foot. In fact, Will found that he couldn’t move at _all_ , really. An unpleasantly hard surface was beneath his back—he was lying down, but _where?_ The floor? It took Will more effort than it should have to move his fingers from where they were pressed, forcibly, to his side by something unyielding, and he felt a smooth material underneath his touch.

_Wood?_

“Ah, you’ve come to.” A voice, deep and melodious and accented, came from somewhere farther away. Will strained his neck to see who was speaking it, but he nearly choked when something at his neck—a band of some sort—dug into his throat like a noose. “Please don’t try to fight against your restraints,” the unknown man spoke again. “They’re for your benefit, Will, to keep you from harming yourself.”

 _Restraints?_ Will thought groggily, his mind too disorganized and dazed to piece together a coherent response. _What...?_

“I genuinely apologize for any discomfort,” the man continued. Will narrowed his eyes, because he recognized this voice. But who…? “I was hoping that it wouldn’t come to this, but I suppose I was being optimistic—”

Ah. “H-Hanni...bal,” Will slurred, his tongue feeling heavy and clumsy in his mouth.

Then, there was an affectionate touch to his scalp and gentle fingers ran through his hair. The sensations were surprisingly welcome. “Yes. And do you know where you are?”

 _Where I am?_ Will repeated in his mind, struggling to focus and keep his eyes open. He clambered feebly through his brain for an answer, and found himself unable. And when he spoke, he could only stammer, “N...no—”

“Unfortunate,” Hannibal said, and Will nearly whimpered when the soothing fingers left his hair. “But it’s fine—you will soon. I didn’t want to use that drug for this reason, but I had no choice.”

He tried to open his eyes again, but the unforgiving light made the deed unmanageable. He whispered, “Light…”

“Hm?” Hannibal’s voice was gentle.

“It hurts.” Will found that his tongue was regaining its dexterity. Words were easier to say.

“Ah. I can't turn it off yet, sadly. It's very much needed.” Hannibal sounded genuinely regretful, and when Will released a distressed whine at the statement, he then murmured, soothingly, “Soon, Will, soon.”

Soft lips to his forehead. _A kiss,_ Will distantly realized. Then, warm breath against his hair. “I must retrieve some supplies. You should be more aware in a few minutes. Stay still and relax, and try not to struggle. It will only hurt you more, and I don’t want that.”

And in mere moments, Hannibal was gone.

Will, now alone, released a shaky breath. He wasn’t certain of what was happening, but it couldn't be _too_ bad. He was dizzy and in pain, yes, but Hannibal was there, so things must be alright—

 _But_ , Will thought, uneasily, _where am I?_ Even after assuring himself that all was well, the question continued to reverberate throughout his head like a persistent itch that wouldn’t go away. But when he tried to open his eyes to take note of his surroundings, all he could see was a glaring white that effectively rendered his vision useless.

Will attempted to shift his arm, but found that he couldn’t. Something scratchy and unyielding pressed hard against his upper arm and wrist, keeping them firmly in place. What…? What was—

Why was he strapped down?

Panic, previously repressed by the drugged haze that his mind was incrementally breaking out of, began to overcome its powerful but slackening bonds. It started to swirl in his head, sending a shock of adrenaline through his body.

Even with Will’s eyes closed, the too-bright light burned red through his eyelids and made his head pound. What kind of lamp was this? It seemed familiar to him—

He suddenly itched to move, to flee. But why, when Hannibal was there to—?

To...

 _Adoring eyes above him. Fear, fervent fear through his exhausted body. A need to_ escape—

Escape? Will felt another stab of coherency through the fog in his brain. Why did he want to escape?

Why did he still want to?

And, dear God, this light was too bright—  
“ _You know I couldn’t do that. I could never do that.”_

A soothing voice. Hannibal sounded so gentle. Still, Will felt the pleasant haze in his body and mind eventually dissipate as a cold, sharp sort of realization came to him.

Papers. Will had spilled papers onto the floor, hadn’t he? There was one underneath the desk—one underneath…

_Papers… the Wound Man…_

_The Chesapeake Ripper…_

The Chesapeake Ripper had killed the Wound Man, right? But why—

_Why would Hannibal have that drawing?_

Now, panic was very much beginning to simmer beneath the surface of Will’s pallid skin. A new wave of coherency came to him with this adrenaline, and with that—

He remembered running—running through dark indistinguishable hallways, his lungs burning and his body sore. Then, all he could recall was agony—his right ankle had been in such pain that he had been in near tears.

The experience was terrible. The thought of it alone made Will feel weak and feeble.

But why was he running? For some reason, Will found this question to be the most significant. Because somehow, _somehow_ he knew that his dash through the corridors had led him right to where he was now—strapped down and...

_And…_

“ _Ah. So you know.” Hannibal’s voice, almost matter-of-fact in tone. “Well, it was only a matter of time.”_

Will felt another burst of anxiety. _A matter of time? What was he talking about?_ His wrists trembled in their bonds.

It was him that Hannibal had been saying those words to—of this, Will was certain. But, then, what did he know? What was Hannibal referring to?

“ _Well, it was only a matter of time,”_ Hannibal had said. The words seemed innocuous, but the statement left Will feeling off balanced, uneasy.

He remembered the ghost sensation of a shoe, a leather shoe, slamming down on his injured ankle, bringing with it an agony that made him shudder even now. And then there was Hannibal's voice again, steady and slow, “I didn’t want to hurt you. But I had no choice, you must understand.”

And Will felt a spike of fear.

_Why… why would Hannibal…?_

Then, a piece of knowledge, powerful and deadly in its very core, finally returned to him:

**Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper.**

And Will nearly cried out in horror, in betrayal, and in anger. A chilling sense of sharp rationality returned to him. In his desperate panic and terror, he opened his eyes. And as the drug left his system, as his mind lost its previous haze, he came to realize that these striped blue walls were the same walls in Hannibal’s dining room. Will very quickly became aware that the objects preventing him from moving were thick, well-made ropes that were securely wrangled around the cool wooden surface that he lied on.

He was strapped down to the dining room table, like a pig ready for slaughter.

The imagery that thought evoked sent a piercing, cold fear straight down to his chest. Feeling hysteria beginning to build in his mind, Will struggled to stay calm in the face of his position—that he was going to be the victim of a callous murderer and unrepentant cannibal.

He began to feel suffocated by the band at his neck, even though it wasn't tight enough to strangle him unless he struggled. As he tested each of his limbs, feeling old desperation and fright re-emerge, Will realized that the thick ropes were wrapped around his wrists, arms, legs, and left ankle, effectively keeping them trapped against the table. His right ankle, his injured one, was left with something else encasing it—a splint, he came to realize, but as hurt as it was, it was useless anyway—

Then, Will heard the sound of languid approaching footsteps. He froze.

Hannibal was coming back.

Terrified, Will renewed his struggle against his bonds; however, they did not give way to his strength, feeble as it was. He pulled at them; was nearly strangled by the one at his throat, and almost lost circulation in his good leg, but that didn’t matter because he needed to _get out—_

“Will, please,” Hannibal said, now in the dining room, his voice clear and placating. Hannibal soon came into Will’s field of vision, looking down at him with a neutral gaze. His head blocked out some of the painfully bright light, but that relief was weak compared to the fear permeating throughout Will’s entire body. “I don’t want you to be hurt.”

“You—” Will began, his voice trembling wildly. He hated it—he hated how terrified he sounded; how calm, how unaffected Hannibal was in contrast. “Tell me that I’m wrong,” he breathed out, hands still wildly searching, straining against the bands entrapping them.

He turned his head to the side, to see Hannibal more clearly. There the man, the Chesapeake Ripper, stood, with his pale hair slicked back and his powerful body beneath a tailored suit jacket and pressed pants. Will desired, for a brief moment, to wield those horns in his hand—the ones lining the mantle of the fireplace—and plunge them straight into Hannibal’s chest, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to unless he broke free of his bonds.

Hannibal only tilted his head to the side, his dark eyes curious. “Tell you what? Affirm what you already know, have already seen? You witnessed the evidence right in your hand,” he said, voice low as he held up _The Wound Man_ sketch, which had been left carelessly on the floor. “What you want me to deny, you know is the truth.”

“God fucking damnit,” Will whispered, feeling panic bubble up. “Fucking—” He looked frantically around the room. There was absolutely nothing that could help him in his reach, absolutely nothing. Will was, without any doubt, helpless and under Hannibal’s mercy.

Hannibal noticed the frustration in his gaze, the fear and the slight shift of his body as he attempted to pull free. He didn’t seem too bothered by it, instead offering Will a small smile. “You must understand that escape is impossible by now,” he said. A brief pause. Conversationally, he asked, “Do you know the reason why you are in the dining room?” Without waiting for Will’s reply, he continued, “Perhaps you forgot, but you must keep in mind that we are not the only ones in this house.” He spread his arms out, his eyes gleaming predatorily. “It would be rude to forget our guest, wouldn’t it?”

 _Molly._ Will stilled, horror blossoming in his chest. _Oh God,_ Molly _is still here—_

“Don't hurt her,” he whispered, terrified. In response, Hannibal only smiled. The facial expression only spiked his anxiety.

Where was Molly? Was she outside the front door? Was she inside the house already? Will didn’t hear the door opening again, so did that mean—?

Hannibal must have seen the terrified expression on his face, because his gaze became a smidgen darker. “Will,” he said, almost sweetly. “You are remarkable, truly. But you must remember that you are not infallible to error.” Then, with warning in his voice: “Do not do something that you will regret. You are simply upset right now—”

“Upset?” Will repeated; seething, panicking. He heard his voice shake, and he despised it. “You… You murder people, and you tell me that I am just—” He then froze, horrified. “Hannibal,” he said, disbelieving. “What did you do with the bodies?”

“You know the answer already, Will,” Hannibal murmured, his eyes shining. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Will did know the answer. He didn’t want to say it, and he certainly hated the nausea building at the back of his throat. He despised the sensation that made him feel like he that he could heave at any moment—

Because he knew—

“How long?” Will asked, furious, disgusted. “How long did you feed me your victims?”

“Since I started cooking meals for you.” Hannibal cocked his head to the side, appearing interested. “Did you not like the protein scramble that I made for you?”

“Jesus Christ,” Will breathed out, feeling faint. Hannibal’s gaze sharpened.

“You appear weak,” he said, voice almost melodic in tone. “Perhaps you should relax? I would not want you to fall sick.”

“So what are you going to do to me now?” Will felt wild panic stirring in his chest, and his mind was alight in hysteria. “Kill me? Eat me? I know too much, right?”

“Will, I already told you that I don’t want to hurt you—”

“Bull fucking shit, Hannibal,” Will snarled. “You won’t let me out of this place with the knowledge I have. You won’t allow me to ruin your precious cover, and you know I will. You aren’t an idiot.”

“I’m pleased that you think so highly of me.”

“Trust me,” Will said. “I don’t. But—” He trembled slightly in his restraints. “But I sure as hell know what you’re capable of.”

Hannibal only smiled at this. “I have no doubt,” he said. “But you haven’t _seen_ what I can do, have you?” Then, he held out a scalpel. The sight of it—silver and slender and sharp, glimmering against the too-bright light above—sent a cold rush of fear down Will’s spine. “But no worries, you will experience it yourself.”

“W-wait, Hannibal—” Will said, his voice quivering as he stared at the surgical instrument. And it was then, almost like a splash of cold water, he realized that the bright, cool, white lamp above him was a _surgical light_. His limbs shook as they tried, yet again, to break free of their bonds, but this resulted in no success. Will felt very much like a lamb brought to the butcher’s knife—but, wasn’t that what he essentially was?

After all, Hannibal _ate_ his victims, didn’t he?

“Hush,” Hannibal crooned. “This will be over very quickly, I assure you—”

Then, a soft chime—gentle, melodic; a Chopin piece—cut him off. Will froze at the sudden sound, and Hannibal’s eyes narrowed sharply. The melody played a few seconds longer, but that was all the time Will needed to know that this was Hannibal’s _ringtone._

A pity that he was in such a precarious situation. Otherwise, he would have laughed.

With one hand, Hannibal reached into the right pocket of his slacks and retrieved a sleek, black cellphone. He took one look at the screen, and he did not bother to mask his grimace.

“Well, I suppose it’d be rude not to answer,” Hannibal said, but his statement sounded forced and reluctant. He reached for something behind him, but before Will could see what it was—

Fingers jabbed into his right ankle and Will _screamed._ Then, taking advantage, fingers slid into his mouth. Immediately, Will attempted to bite down, but with a soft “tsk”, he felt, yet again, a hand brutally pressing down on his injured leg. That served as a warning, clearly, and Will, who couldn’t help the shriek from leaving his throat once more, felt the sensation of something being stuffed deep in his mouth, and a fabric of some sort tied tight over his lips and wrapped around his entire head.

A gag. He was being _gagged._

Hannibal had the gall to look contrite. “My apologies, but I cannot afford to waste time and I need to get everything prepared. It will only be temporary, I promise.”

And with that, he walked away, and Will was left seething.

“Mmmmph!”

There was no response, however. Will turned his head to see Hannibal standing on the other side of the dining room, with his cellphone raised to his ear.

“Hello, Jack.”

And Will’s blood ran cold, because _Jack_ was on the other line. No matter how persistent or blunt or aggressive the man was, no matter how many issues he and Will had over their jobs, he was still a capable agent of the FBI.

Above all, Jack was someone who could _save him._ And surely he would be able to hear any stray noises on Hannibal’s end of the line. Will felt a strange hope flood his system, and he knew, he _knew—_

He had to somehow let Jack know that he was here.

And, that he was in trouble.

“Ah, it’s no issue,” Hannibal assured. He turned and stalked towards the table near the fireplace, where a basket (which had most certainly not been there before) sat. It was intricately designed, but the sight of it left Will feeling unnerved. Hannibal, still on the phone, began to sort through the contents within the basket. He seemed to be looking for something. From Will’s vantage view, he wasn’t able to discern what was inside of the basket, and that frustrated him endlessly.

Then, suddenly, Hannibal stilled, halting in the middle of whatever he was doing. Will wished that Hannibal was facing him just so he could witness his expression in this moment. All he could see, however, was the way that Hannibal’s broad back stiffened slightly.

“Will… upset…? Should he have been?” Hannibal sounded mildly surprised. Will froze at the sound of his name, his hands numb beneath the ropes. Why would Jack want to talk about him?

“You want to apologize? It’s good to realize that you aren’t blameless, but I don’t understand why you’re telling me this instead of Will—” Now, Hannibal’s voice had a false puzzlement to it, though the interest there was very, _very_ real. It shook Will to the bone, driving him into releasing a shrill call for help.

“MMMMPH—” Will tried to screech. His voice was very much muffled and quieted beneath the gag, however, and his voice faltered when Hannibal spun around, gaze dark. A new wave of terror came to him when he watched, helplessly, as Hannibal began to swiftly walk towards him. He instinctively and unsuccessfully attempted to pull away when Hannibal reached the table, tensing when he felt the rope tighten ruthlessly around his neck. Will almost choked, and his desperate struggling against his restraints renewed. The bonds refused to give way.

“Sorry,” Hannibal said, sounding incredibly casual despite the situation. “I fear that a cat is in heat outside. It’s shockingly early, but you know how unpredictable nature can be—”

A cat in heat. _A cat in fucking heat._ Will wanted to scream simply from the immense rage he felt. The fury must have shown on his face, however, because all he saw was a strong, steady arm crossing his vision before the strap was tightened even _further_ , pressing tightly against his neck and successfully suffocating him. He could only release a shocked, horrified gasp in response to the brutal cruelty forced onto him.

“Ah. You don’t know why. Well, Will is upset but—” There was a flash of calculation in Hannibal’s eyes. “Actually—no. I don’t know if I should say this to you, Jack. I have already hurt him by telling you about Molly…”

Will’s lungs began to _burn_ for oxygen. He wished to beg for mercy, but with the gag effectively rendering him mute, all he could do was release a quiet whine and feel the back of his eyes sting.

“I suppose I can’t argue there,” Hannibal admitted, but all Will could think was _air, air, I need fucking_ air— “You see—”

And then, he abruptly released the rope around his throat, leaving Will coughing and gasping for air. The relief did not last long, because in that moment, Hannibal stared straight into his eyes, and there something _terrible_ in his expression—something all consuming and deadly and frightening that left something in Will’s stomach recoiling from the sight alone.

“—he had found out that Molly isn’t his soulmate.”

And with those callous, cruel, _nonsensical, untrue_ words, Will felt his heart freeze.

_What…?_

“Yes, really. It really was unfortunate—he’s quite broken about it, you must understand,” Hannibal said. Deciding apparently, that Will was effectively brought into submission, he returned to the basket on the table.

Will, lying on the table, could only think:

_Why?_

Why would Hannibal say this? It wasn’t factual—how would it benefit him? What was the purpose of this?

_It makes no sense, what is he planning—?_

“I’m sorry for him too. This is rare, after all, but it does happen,” Hannibal agreed. There was an insincere sorrow in his tone that made Will queasy.

_Is it an alibi? Is he buying himself time?_

It was a blatant lie, but Hannibal was a sensible person. He wouldn’t…

There was no way that he could keep this blatant deception up—it was simply impossible. Not unless…

Then, the realization hit him, and ice-cold fear burst in Will’s chest.

After all, it was true that there was no way for Hannibal to keep this deception up...

...Not unless he planned for neither Will nor Molly to leave the house alive.

 _Fuck,_ Will thought, terrified. _Oh,_ fuck—

Then, there was an ingenuine sympathy in Hannibal’s voice. “Yes, you had went through something similar, didn’t you? Before Bella—ah. _False fireworks_ , they have been known to happen in individuals before—”

 _How dare you,_ Will thought, simmering in rage, terror, horror. _How fucking_ dare _you._

“—but thankfully,” Hannibal said, and now, there was something terrifyingly _real_ about the warmth of his words. “There have also been _delayed_ ones, haven't there? Again, you and Bella—”

‘ _Delayed’?_ Will felt his body stiffen. _What is he talking about?_

“Hm. I will be sure to look into it more. But for now, it would not be wise—” Hannibal said. And then, he reached for something on the counter. Had Will not been gagged, he would have audibly gasped when he saw his very own cellphone in Hannibal’s hand. And he watched, in shock, as Hannibal turned it off, putting it right back where he previously placed it. “—to speak to him right now. He’s understandably upset.”

 _He’s going to kill me,_ Will thought, feeling his eyes begin to water. _He’s going to kill both me and Molly, and she doesn’t even_ know—

He felt frustrated tears in his eyes, and he wanted to _scream._

“Yes, I believe waiting a few days at least is for the best,” Hannibal said, eyes glittering. “He will appreciate the apology, Jack, I’m certain of it. Goodbye—you too. Have a pleasant evening, and give Bella my love.”

And with that, Hannibal placed his own phone back into the pocket of his pants. He then turned to Will, a smile on his face.

“Now, was that so hard?”

Tears were streaming down Will’s face now.

_I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you—_

Hannibal approached him in languid strides. Will’s eyes must have revealed his his anger and fear, because once he reached him, Hannibal stroked his hair gently.

“You despise me now,” Hannibal murmured. “And you will despise me even more for what I will do to you. But I promise—” He pressed another kiss to his forehead, and Will immediately recoiled, disgusted. “—that it will all be worth it.” Hannibal’s voice was filled with such genuine fondness, _belief,_ that Will found a cold kind of terror dripping through his bloodstream. “Trust me,” Hannibal said, and there was a promise in those two words.

‘ _Trust’ you? I_ did _trust you, but you betrayed me, you—_

Hannibal, clearly seeing the hatred remaining in his expression, only looked more adoring.

“I know it will take some time,” he said, kindly. “But that’s fine. Time is something that I will have plenty of.”

And Will watched helplessly as Hannibal left him, walking towards the table by the fireplace. He struggled against his bonds yet again, but his limbs were tired and his foot ached, and slowly but surely he was realizing the futility of it—

Then, something silver gleamed, and Will’s eyes traveled to the basket. Prior to this moment, he hadn't been able to see its contents. Now, however, he watched as Hannibal took out morbid, dangerous-looking metallic items. Weak, in pain, and without his glasses, Will couldn’t see well enough to identify what these objects were, but he knew, just from their pointed angles and thin structures, that they were medical instruments.

And Will felt raw, unadulterated fear. He couldn’t help the muffled sob that he released through the gag.

“I’ve only done this particular operation twice before,” Hannibal admitted, casually, as he held up a long, thin scalpel to the light, observing it with an analytical eye. The sight of it made Will’s stomach recoil. “But I’ve conducted extensive research. Because of my years as a surgeon and more recent pursuits, I have had plenty of experience with the human physiology and anatomy. You are in good hands,” he said, not even sparing Will a glance as he looked at each of his tools with a critical eye.

 _Operation?_ Will felt terror—pure, cold terror that left him shuddering. The word alone filled his mind with twisted, distorted images of Hannibal extracting organs from his body… _and isn’t that going to be a reality?!_ Will thought, his heart beating so quickly that it seemed to be physically pounding against his ribcage. He felt as though the rope around his neck was tightening, leaving him short of breath. Sweat was building on his neck and chest, and a wave of dizziness swam to his brain.

Then, Will felt a firm, cool hand at his forehead, and he whimpered.

“Deep breaths, Will,” Hannibal said. “I care about you, and I don’t want you to panic when there’s no need to.” His voice was alarmingly calm, but how could it be? How could he say that? How, when he was going to open Will up, take his organs, and kill him?

Will didn’t, _couldn’t_ , understand what Hannibal meant.

Was that something a murderer—one who saw his victims as pigs—would say to a man he was going to slaughter and eat?

And then, he saw something shimmer above him in the bright glow of the surgery light. Hannibal was holding the scalpel right fucking above him, and Will felt fear and nausea hit him at once. He cried, felt his eyes tear, and in the face of death, he begged, he fucking tried to beg—

“Mmmph mmmmph—”

Will felt cold air as Hannibal slowly, carefully unbuttoned his plaid shirt.

_God, oh God, I—I—_

Then, there was the press of an ice-cold metallic tip, sharp, against the top of his chest. Will shuddered, and he sobbed in earnest.

“It’s alright,” Hannibal soothed. He then said, voice apologetic, “This will hurt. But it’s necessary.”

Then, _pain._

Hannibal sliced him open, slowly and meticulously, _deeply._ Will’s scream, muffled against the gag but still loud, echoed across the dining room. He struggled against the ropes holding him to the table—when the fuck did Hannibal even attach these things, and _how?!_ —but they did not give way. Hannibal was silent and focused in this work, peeling layers of skin back, most likely leaving Will’s internal organs on display. He didn’t see, he didn’t dare look down—the world was too bright and too painful around him, and he wished to die because _it hurt so much_ , but he _didn’t_ want to die, and—

Then, the scalpel was within him. _What is he doing?_ Will thought, horrified. He shrieked as they sliced his insides, somewhat shallowly—where, he didn’t know for certain, but he could _feel_ it.

“This,” he heard Hannibal say, but his voice sounded muffled, distant, “is perhaps the most important part. Perhaps it would have been more convenient to have a priest here—or a rabbi or imam—but I have to do without. I studied Biblical Hebrew and Koine Greek extensively for months, Will— _all for this very moment.”_

 _Hebrew? Greek?_ Will didn’t understand because all he could think was agony, and all he could feel was the press of the scalpel against his flesh, doing something, but what—?

 _Carving._ Will realized that Hannibal was _carving_ inside of him, with the scalpel. But why? It made no sense, the Chesapeake Ripper didn’t write inside his victims—

“There will be internal scarring,” Hannibal explained, but he sounded far away compared to the agony pooling in Will’s mind. “But I will try my best to avoid causing needless problems such as adhesions—”

Will, in all fucking honesty, in this moment, didn’t care about adhesions or internal scarring. He just wanted this to be over.

He didn’t know if it took seconds, minutes, or hours, but in one moment all he could feel was the careful, intricate slicing within him, and in the next, there was only the sensation of blaring agony simmering throughout his entire being. His body was burning, and his throat was hoarse from his screaming—he was _still_ screaming, but there was no more of the painful, terrible sensation of the scalpel, and—

“You did so well,” Hannibal murmured. Will couldn’t see him past the tears in his eyes, but there was so much pride and happiness in his voice that it was overwhelming. “In a way,” Hannibal breathed out. “I’m relieved that I cannot use analgesic. The idea of you laid out on this table, unconscious and unaware—not knowing what you’re becoming… the thought alone angers me.”

 _Becoming…?_ Will’s mind struggled to catch up to Hannibal’s words.

“All I must do now is the stitching,” Hannibal said. “And then—”

Footsteps.

Will heard the sound of footsteps—light, slow, but steady—and his heart froze. Hannibal, above him, stilled.

 _Molly,_ Will realized, horrified. _Oh. Oh shit—_ Molly!

“Our guest has finally arrived,” Hannibal said, absolutely calmly. “I suppose the polite thing to do is to greet her, don't you think, Will?”

 _No,_ Will wanted to shriek. _No, you fucking asshole, don't you dare hurt her—_

But, the world spun unforgivingly around him, he was still laid on the table with his torso sliced open, and there was still a gag firmly placed in his mouth. All he could do was release a low, agonized moan, which did little justice to express what he was feeling.

Hannibal, on the other hand, smiled. “Apologies, it seems that the stitching will have to wait. More pressing matters must be addressed.”

With that, he stepped away. And when he returned, he was carrying a knife in hand.

No energy left to raise his voice, all Will could release was a distressed groan. “Mmmmn…”

The footsteps got louder, and Will thought, weakly, _no. No—_

But he was pathetic, left helpless and unable to lift even a finger to save her. Will tried—he swore he tried—to break free of the ropes entrapping him, but any movement brought him agony that made his vision flash white, and he was just _so tired—_

Hannibal looked down at him, adoringly, at the way he writhed and moaned and cried. “Oh, you remarkable boy,” he crooned, warmly. “This will all be over soon.”

And Will felt the back of his eyes burn, and tears stream down his face. He shook, trembled, but couldn’t move.

Not with all of his organs left on display in his body. He was utterly weak, helpless. Too too feeble to do anything—any movement, even tensing a muscle, needed strength that he didn’t have. Any movement caused him agony too—pain from the the tear across his chest seemed to have spread to even his fingertips. All Will could do was stare up at the ceiling, his body as limp as a doll’s, feeling blood pound in his ears and pain burn throughout each of his limbs, taste the now-wet flavor of the cloth in his mouth, and let only the trickle of tears across his face outwardly express his sorrow.

The footsteps became louder.

 _She’s going to die, and it’s all my fault._ Distress, anger, and guilt all ran through his veins. A new wave of panic flooded his tired brain, and, in an attempt to plead for her life, he whimpered, weakly, “Mmmmph.”

Hannibal, however, only kindly touched fingers to his cheek—almost like an owner soothing an agitated dog. “It will all be over soon,” he repeated, as though that was meant to be assuring.

Then, the footsteps stopped. And Will swore that his heart did too.

“She’s here,” Hannibal whispered against Will’s ear, and all Will wanted to do was scream: _Shut up shut up I don’t want to know I don’t want to_ hear _this don’t_ hurt _her—_

The only thing he released, however, was a feeble, pained moan.

God, everything fucking _hurt._

“I’m sorry that my call took so long!” Molly’s voice rang out into the dining room. There were footsteps again—she was walking forward, _why_ was she walking forward?! Will attempted to do something, say something, but now, he found he didn’t even have the strength for that. “My sister just had her second baby, and—”

Then the footsteps stopped, abruptly. “What’s that smell…? Hannibal?” Then, Will heard her take a wild step back. _She knows._ There was then fear and shock in her voice—horror. “Hannibal! Why is Will…? What…?”

Will, selfishly wishing that he didn’t have to hear this, shut his eyes. The pounding in his ears, however, did not drown out the voices.

 _Molly, run!_ He wanted to say. Instead, all that came out of his gagged mouth was, “Mmmmn nnn,” but of course, _of course,_ she didn’t move a single bit.

Instead, she sounded horrified and angry. “What are you _doing?”_

 _It doesn’t matter!_ _**Run!** _

Hannibal’s voice was deceptively kind. “It’s good that you’re finally here. I was beginning to get worried—you were gone for quite a while.”

“Answer my fucking question!” Molly’s voice, however, was high-pitched in fear. Will heard a single, shaky footstep—she took another step back. She was terrified. “What are you doing to him?!”

_Run run run run—_

“I was just about to stitch up the wound, but then you came in—” Hannibal began. Another footstep; Hannibal took a step forward, placatingly, but Will could clearly remember the thin, slender knife that he tucked behind his back.

 _Oh no. Oh no_. As an attempt to warn her, Will released a “MMMm mmmmm.” All this did, however, was inflame Molly’s anger and fear further.

“The wound? That’s not a wound, Hannibal!” Molly shouted, shrilly. “You were _operating_ on him—!” She was frightened. Will could feel her fear through the bond—it was strong enough to make him tremble. “You… _Don’t come closer! Don’t—”_

A loud slam—Hannibal had thrown her against the wall. Will almost wailed as though the pain was his own. Whimpers of “No—no—” in Molly’s voice, soft pitter-patter of hands—she was attempting to crawl away but didn’t she know that it was useless?! Then, a noise and a cry; Hannibal used his foot—powerful and tucked within expensive leather shoes—to slam her down bodily against the floor.

“Don’t touch me!” She was screaming, yelling, kicking. Will could hear her shoes kicking against the floor—another crack, her wrist bone this time, and she howled.

“Had things been more ideal,” Hannibal said, only slightly breathless. But, there was very clear anger vibrating through his deep, lilting voice. “I would have made this last longer.” Shuffling of clothes. Weak whimpers from Molly. “You’ve been a particularly rude, disgusting creature—” Molly released a frightened cry here. Will felt tears prickle at the back of his eyes. “—Attempting to take something that you are so clearly not worthy of is nothing short of repugnant. But unfortunately, as banal and cliche as this sounds, I must finish this before midnight. Besides—” And Molly’s desperate kicks resumed, only for yet another crack—her elbow—to make her release a heartbreaking wail. “—I feel no obligation to waste my—or my dear Will’s—time on a filthy sow.”

“Please please please—” Molly was whimpering, begging. “Please don’t—I swear… I swear that whatever I’ve taken from you, you can have it! Please don’t… please don’t kill me...”

“Oh, I have no doubt that you will give it to me,” Hannibal said, pleasantly.

Then, a loud, guttural choke. It was a distinctive, horrible sound that Will knew he would hear in his nightmares long after. A thud on the floor.

And that was the last straw for his consciousness. Battered and shriveled from abuse, it gave in, and Will, perhaps mercifully, blacked out.

* * *

 

It didn’t last long.

Will woke up, in increments, and by the time he was fully aware (by the time his memories came surging back to him, ruthlessly), he felt overwhelming sensations of despair, grief, and nausea bubble in his chest. Will couldn't hold back the mournful, distressed moan that he released through the gag.

 _She's dead,_ he thought dully, his eyes shut. _She's dead and it's all my fault—_

 _If anything,_ his mind supplied, _if anything, it hurts much less._

It was true. He could hardly feel his wound. He must have been given a drug—a pain reliever, of some sort. Any relief from this was short-lived, because as unbearable the pain had been, it did, in its strange way, manage to distract him from the emotional turmoil going on inside his head. Now, there was nothing for him to focus on except for the unrelenting brightness of the lamp (which he could see even with his eyes shut), the ropes still keeping him entrapped, and his thoughts, which were perhaps the most intolerable of the three.

But then, he heard approaching footsteps. The light burning red through his eyelids dimmed; Hannibal was standing over him. Will refused to open his eyes. Then, to his shock, he felt fingers at the fabric over his cheeks. After some fumbling with the cloth, he felt it being forcibly removed from the lower half of his face, the movement rough enough to leave his skin burning. The fabric in his mouth was tugged out after, and Will was unable to find relief in the new freedom because all he could do was choke and cough from the sensation.

“I stitched your wounds while you were out,” Hannibal said, his accented voice steady despite everything. “And I gave you pain relievers—opioids, if you must know—intravenously. That should help with the—”

“You murderer,” Will cut him off, his voice hoarse.

“That would be the case regardless of whether I killed Molly or not,” Hannibal pointed out, almost kindly. Then, in a sickeningly sweet manner, he asked, “Would you like to see her? She _was_ supposed to be your soulmate, after all.”

“If you think you’ve gotten away with this—” Will whispered, before swallowing. Gathering himself, he then said louder, fiercer: “If you think you’ve gotten away with this, you’re mistaken, Hannibal. I don’t know why you operated on me since, unless I’ve missed something, you didn’t take out even one of my organs. I don’t know why you stitched me up either, and I don’t know why I’m still alive. _I don’t._ ”

Will drew in a deep breath, then said, “But that’s besides the point, isn’t it? If you let me go, you know that I won’t keep my mouth shut about this. I won’t bother begging you. But if you don’t let me go, then this scenario will inevitably happen: both Molly and I will be either labeled missing or found dead in, what, weeks? Your ‘Will is too upset to speak’ lie can’t hold up forever, you know. Not only that, but you, Hannibal, are linked to both me and Molly. The three of us had met at the cafe earlier, which is most definitely documented by cameras. Furthermore, if Molly had told any of her friends or family members that she went out for dinner with her soulmate and ‘his friend’, well… let me just say that my list of ‘friends’ is horrendously short. You may not be a suspect at first, but the FBI will look into you. Your ‘cat in heat’ story—how long will _that_ one hold? The only people that I’ve been seen interacting a lot with today are you and Molly. The Bureau will definitely note that. Jack will also remember your dishonesty about me and Molly not being soulmates—he may not realize it at first, but after he learns that the two of us are both victims—well, he will certainly connect the dots.”

Hannibal listened, patiently. Despite Will’s furious words, he didn’t appear threatened or scared, but rather, endeared. “You hold a surprising amount of faith in the FBI despite the fact that, for a spectacularly long time, they’ve had their very own Chesapeake Ripper _right under their noses_. But don’t lose that naivety; it’s very attractive on you.” Then, the light burning through Will’s eyelids dimmed to a peaceful black. Hannibal finally turned the damn thing off.  “And, you seem quite certain about me being a liar. Tell me, Will, why would I be dishonest about your and Molly’s soul bond?”

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?” Will said, almost angered by the pointless question. “I felt fireworks. And I’d felt the bond long after, so it isn’t ‘false’, or whatever bullshit you fed to Jack. I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

Hannibal hummed. “Will, tell me how you felt when Molly died.”

“What?” _How dare he?_ “You’re asking me that when you killed her, you—”

“I didn’t ask if I did it—I _know_ I did it. I want to know how you _felt_. Did it hurt?”

“Of course it hurt! You murdered her right in front of me—”

“I don’t mean if it hurt emotionally. Any death would do that.” Hannibal sounded dismissive. “I mean spiritually—the same level as the ‘fireworks’ you felt when you first touched her. When a person’s soulmate dies, they are often left shells of their former selves—lifeless, desiring nothing but death to reunite with their lost lover. This is especially the case immediately after the death occurred. But look at you: arguing with me so passionately and feeling only the faint grief and guilt of a man for a fallen stranger that he believed he could have saved—ah, don’t make that expression, Will; Molly and you _are_ strangers. Remove the gaudy ‘soulmate’ label, because clearly you two are not anymore, and understand that what you are feeling is not, as described by those who actually experienced it, _the devastation that drives one to madness_ or _the void that consumes the heart entirely._ No. What you are feeling pales in comparison to what someone should feel when they lose their soulmate. Why is that?”

“What do you mean ‘anymore’?” Will whispered, something in him gone cold. His voice rose. “ _What do you mean that we are not soulmates anymore?”_ Will finally opened his eyes, and it was to Hannibal smiling as though he was entertaining a particularly stupid child. That worsened Will’s rage. He snarled, “What have you _done?”_

“Look and see for yourself,” Hannibal said, gesturing beside him.

And Will did—for it, he nearly retched.

Right there, after all, was Molly (or what was left of her, really) lying on the floor. The coat that she had been wearing had been flung messily to the side (ripped off with a knife, most likely) and there was an enormous gash in her partially bare torso and throat. Blood dripped down from her chest and neck to her thighs and it pooled on the floor. Her eyes were still open, but they were horrifyingly blank—and still so blue. Her blond hair was mussed and spread across the ground, its ends stained red by her own blood.

It was a brutally painful death. It looked nothing like what the Chesapeake Ripper—or Hannibal—would do. It was too messy. Too emotional.

Will wasn’t able, in this moment, to realize what this meant. He felt nauseous. He wished he hadn’t opened his eyes.

“Upon further reflection,” Hannibal mused. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh on Molly. I was just too furious—I was overcome by my emotions, which doesn’t happen too often. I’d been planning to make a good meal out of her, but I hadn’t been as gentle with her as I had been with you. It's unfortunate that I made an error on such a glorious day, for this day will indeed celebrate a soul bond and a union. And I apologize sincerely, dear Will, for not killing Molly earlier and being so cruel as to let you two bond. I made it so much harder for you than it had to be. As an apology—when I finished using the scalpel on Molly, I drugged you as a precaution so you wouldn’t feel the immense pain elicited by the breaking of your bond—”

“Hannibal, what are you talking about?” Will suddenly felt lightheaded. He couldn’t move much, because if he did, he knew he would throw up. “ _What_ breaking?”

“I thought it was self-explanatory," Hannibal said gently, tilting his head to the side. “Then again, this isn’t a well-known procedure.” He then smiled. The warm expression on his face was so remarkably genuine that it made Will feel sick. “It’s quite complex, but I will break it down to its simplest, core explanation: I destroyed your soul bond with Molly.”

And Will felt a cold sort of fear. “What—wha—” Then, denial. “That's impossible—that—”

“It _is_ possible,” Hannibal said easily. “And had you witnessed Molly’s scream when your shared bond broke, you would believe me.”

“No—”

“Yes, Will,” Hannibal said patiently. “It was a success. And you will understand this fact soon enough.” He then said, kindly, “I understand that you are distressed right now—”

“Distressed!” Will repeated hysterically. “You think that I'm _distressed—!”_

“—But I hope you know that you could be feeling much worse—much _emptier—_ had I left you without a soulmate at all.”

And Will felt something icy drip down his spine.

“What do you—”

“With this operation I managed to redirect your bond in another direction. A _better_ direction.” Hannibal’s eyes were dark, adoring, passionate. “Do you still not understand, Will? _I_ am now your soulmate, as it rightfully should have been.”

A spike of horror.

“No,” Will breathed out. “You're mad. You're fucking insane. That—that's impossible. You—you have a soulmate! You can't just—”

“I dismembered him alive, the disappointment that he was.” Hannibal’s voice was utterly contemptuous. Then, silkily, he murmured, “He could never measure up to you. You ruined me, in this way.”

“You ruined me too,” Will said, hoping that the hate he was feeling was clear in his voice. “You—”

“I _saved_ you,” Hannibal corrected. “Though I know that it will take time before you see that.”

“You can't get away with this,” Will whispered, his mouth dry. “We’ve touched before. Jack knows this. Jack—he’ll know you're lying. He’ll catch you. There’s no way—”

“Nothing is ever so simple, that a mere touch could always determine a soul bond.” Hannibal sounded almost patronizing. It made Will simmer with rage. “Jack learned this lesson with his own wife. He has no reason not to believe me.”

“I'll tell him!” Will said shrilly. “I'll tell him what you did to me! We’ll see how long he’ll believe you then!”

“Will you want to, I wonder?” Hannibal mused. “Soulmates depend so much on each other, after all.” A cold glint to his eyes. “I fear that you'd go insane without me. Insane with _need_ for me.” He then smiled. “A pleasant thought, really, to know that you will fall _madly_ for everything that I am.”

“How do I undo this?” Will snarled. “What did you do during the operation? What do I have to—”

“You can only go forward, Will, not back.” Hannibal’s gaze was dark with adoration. “And I will ensure that you do so.” And with that, he stepped forward, raising a hand. Will watched it reach for him, and he recoiled. The ropes kept him from moving, however, and he began to struggle.

“Stay away!” Will shrieked. His eyes burned and watered. “Stay away _stay away_ you murderer, you, you—I don't want to belong to you, don't you understand that?! _Stay away from me!”_

“I understand that you’re terrified and confused. I understand that you don't know what you want,” Hannibal murmured. His voice was deceivingly gentle, but when Will looked up at him past his tears, the triumph and obsession and adoration was clear in his gaze. The sight alone made him tremble. And then, dark promise lacing each word coming from those deceptive lips, he assured him, “But you will. And I will help you realize this.”

Pulling at his restraints, Will could only watch helplessly as Hannibal leaned over him and bent downwards. He didn't want this, but he couldn’t do anything but sob as the murderer of his soulmate pressed warm, firm lips against his.

And Will felt fireworks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. And that's the last chapter of this fanfic, folks. :) Because I'm going to be vacationing in Central and Southern Europe soon, I'm pleased that I managed to finish this fic before I head overseas. Although this chapter and the last were initially supposed to be one chapter, I had to split them due to their massive combined length. Even with this being the case, this update is still relatively long; I hope you enjoyed it! I apologize if anything in this fic (like the operation) isn’t scientifically accurate—if anything, I did try. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone who gave kudos and commented on my little story! :D I am so very grateful to all of you for supporting this little fanfic of mine! <3 
> 
> While the first four chapters of this fanfic are unbetaed, the fifth chapter was betaed by my dear friend, [EmberGlows](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EmberGlows/pseuds/EmberGlows).
> 
> If you want to check out my Tumblr, my URL is [menaraline.tumblr.com](https://menaraline.tumblr.com)!


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